May There Always Be May
Who doesn’t love spring with greens
growing faster, hens laying more eggs
than we can eat? The flock of yellow
hens peck and gobble, all the world worth
swallowing. Swiss chard, spinach, and
dino kale reach and twist, interleaved,
each leaf vying for the light
like the hands of fans reaching for the lead
singer on stage. Artichokes stretch
their long necks toward the blue sky too.
Should I harvest their tender hearts
or leave them to yearn until they
reveal their brilliant purple bloom?
Hummingbird
In the orange-gray haze of wildfire smoke,
a hummingbird hovers, darts one way,
then another, back and forth, up and down.
Utterly lost, where is the sun in this smoke?
Fires burn in all directions. Perhaps
the hummingbird has lost a great love--
sweet nectar of a mature flower.
Where do we go when each way feels like pain and loss?
When the hummingbird finds an air current,
she flies forward—as we must all do--
not knowing where the current will take her.
Danielle Lemay is a poet and scientist. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net in 2021 and has appeared or is forthcoming in Limp Wrist Magazine, Lavender Review, and ONE ART. She lives in central California with her wife, two children, and six chickens.
Who doesn’t love spring with greens
growing faster, hens laying more eggs
than we can eat? The flock of yellow
hens peck and gobble, all the world worth
swallowing. Swiss chard, spinach, and
dino kale reach and twist, interleaved,
each leaf vying for the light
like the hands of fans reaching for the lead
singer on stage. Artichokes stretch
their long necks toward the blue sky too.
Should I harvest their tender hearts
or leave them to yearn until they
reveal their brilliant purple bloom?
Hummingbird
In the orange-gray haze of wildfire smoke,
a hummingbird hovers, darts one way,
then another, back and forth, up and down.
Utterly lost, where is the sun in this smoke?
Fires burn in all directions. Perhaps
the hummingbird has lost a great love--
sweet nectar of a mature flower.
Where do we go when each way feels like pain and loss?
When the hummingbird finds an air current,
she flies forward—as we must all do--
not knowing where the current will take her.
Danielle Lemay is a poet and scientist. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net in 2021 and has appeared or is forthcoming in Limp Wrist Magazine, Lavender Review, and ONE ART. She lives in central California with her wife, two children, and six chickens.