Denise Kenny

Poems on hiatus
sail the great blue canopy
nod to the poet below, her hands
involved in things of the day
her head turned away as she ponders
the ornament of cloud.
Spring brings sun, slogs
through cool weather
the taste of air
yet to be defined.
There are seventeen
lilies of the valley
under a lilac bush,
three daffodils
uncounted tulips;
only one hosta of the many
has emerged.
Roses send out new stems
the old ones, no longer viable,
remind her of herself.
To be useful
she folds laundry
strains to breathe
as her heart does a ragged dance
desperate to find its rhythm.
When she can’t do much else
the kitchen window’s offerings
become her carriage
to another land, especially
when robins congregate
in evergreens
by the back fence
and a slight surge of happiness
begins to fill the empty places
of a body, yearning
for itself.