Daneen Wardrop
Issue 14 · Fall 2014
Panel of golds
Once in a while my ring,
cold, becomes colder,
a kind of comfort
for the length of a while
when sight turns
limber as branches’
hymn hymn hymn
spreading.
Light jogs this branch.
Sun all afternoon, volume,
flowers flaming
from the dirt.
A sulfur thread, the soonest
war monument, trees trying
to handle it themselves with green
openings, slappings,
manage it with a whiff
of ash to idle through clouds.
My ring is here.
I can’t see my finger
Song panel
A person’s face shapes
to singing, turns
waves placid, easing
to other waves, more placid.
Cold is a colder.
Oh hard times come again
no more: Let me keep them
outside my cabin door--
A person’s face sings
and the back of her neck does
too, strong neck muscles better
than omens, and a fine hair blows
across her mouth, following
the frail forms fainting
at the door. She sings
not for anything in particular
except for what the voice metes
out, not to reach her hand at more.
I see in calico, see in grains
the rosin on the bow,
see through it to notes’
intervals, hard times
come again no more. Snow--
is it snowing? Squirrels know
to feel sun in white-weight,
colder than solace,
snow as a steadfast.
The deer are lifting