I can’t let Poetry Month slip by without sharing one of my poems. No matter how many novels I write, I’ll always have a fondness for the sweet brevity and emotional punch of a poem.
I once read something about how
the meek would inherit the earth
and it must be true—only look.
Every child knows the bright names of
Daisy and Buttercup sunning themselves
in mountain meadows.
Black-eyed Susan winks and waves.
But here, in grown over tracks,
on top of cold, windy mountains
where color is afraid to show,
you’ll find these.
Bluets the book says under
a picture of almost nothing.
Bluets for bare tinged petals
cupping a soft yellow center
like a pat of butter—like light.
Now leave the book and ask just folks.
They’ll call out Quaker Ladies
and I prefer the peaceful point of that.
Nature sows blankets, foamy and soft.
You’ll want to sink down
in how sweet and simple they are—
like something that already knows
how the world will turn out.