After the Rains
After the rains, the daffodils grow
inside their box, sighing as they stretch
toward the amorphous blue-gray ceiling
from the bed The Gardener made for them.
These gorgeous blooms – yellow, blue, pink –
whisper secrets among themselves, perhaps
fears of being unearthed by gophers
or careless toddlers’ fingers.
The Gardener who brought them to life
tries not to hover, believing
they will thrive if left in peace to seek
the sun for as long as their forever lasts.
Friday Morning Moments
As we walk, along with chat that
sometimes veers to become sharing
you, who grew up on farmland,
feed me, who grew up in cities
botanical facts: how this weed anchors
into the soil so fiercely you might never
get rid of it; that wildflower proliferates
if the slightest breeze whispers in its ear;
this plant’s purple blossom lasts only two weeks
when it will wither, only to be reborn next year.
You don’t need to point out that
some of the ugliest weeds
release the sweetest smells.
I remember some details, forget many.
It is the nutmeg of your enthusiasm
being right here, right now
that feeds my soul.
First published in Song of the San Joaquin, Fall of 2015
Still Life
The woman on the bench
smiles at the man next to her.
Her scarf, green with red and white flowers,
provides a lovely contrast to her blue dress.
His vest, blue like her scarf,
sports red and white flowers and stars.
Her hands tucked under her apron,
she listens to his story with crinkling eyes.
His face shows his joy in being heard.
Neighbors, they meet here daily,
both having decided that years of separate grief
provided the freedom from commitment
no one criticizes in the elderly.
Louise Kantro, retired teacher and cat-lover, volunteers as a CASA (court advocate for foster children). After receiving her MFA in 2003, she has published poetry and prose in such journals as Quercus Review, Cloudbank, The Chariton Review, the new renaissance, and South Loop Review. Lately she has been sewing masks for the local women's shelter.
After the rains, the daffodils grow
inside their box, sighing as they stretch
toward the amorphous blue-gray ceiling
from the bed The Gardener made for them.
These gorgeous blooms – yellow, blue, pink –
whisper secrets among themselves, perhaps
fears of being unearthed by gophers
or careless toddlers’ fingers.
The Gardener who brought them to life
tries not to hover, believing
they will thrive if left in peace to seek
the sun for as long as their forever lasts.
Friday Morning Moments
As we walk, along with chat that
sometimes veers to become sharing
you, who grew up on farmland,
feed me, who grew up in cities
botanical facts: how this weed anchors
into the soil so fiercely you might never
get rid of it; that wildflower proliferates
if the slightest breeze whispers in its ear;
this plant’s purple blossom lasts only two weeks
when it will wither, only to be reborn next year.
You don’t need to point out that
some of the ugliest weeds
release the sweetest smells.
I remember some details, forget many.
It is the nutmeg of your enthusiasm
being right here, right now
that feeds my soul.
First published in Song of the San Joaquin, Fall of 2015
Still Life
The woman on the bench
smiles at the man next to her.
Her scarf, green with red and white flowers,
provides a lovely contrast to her blue dress.
His vest, blue like her scarf,
sports red and white flowers and stars.
Her hands tucked under her apron,
she listens to his story with crinkling eyes.
His face shows his joy in being heard.
Neighbors, they meet here daily,
both having decided that years of separate grief
provided the freedom from commitment
no one criticizes in the elderly.
Louise Kantro, retired teacher and cat-lover, volunteers as a CASA (court advocate for foster children). After receiving her MFA in 2003, she has published poetry and prose in such journals as Quercus Review, Cloudbank, The Chariton Review, the new renaissance, and South Loop Review. Lately she has been sewing masks for the local women's shelter.
