On a day in June
the heavy heads of peonies,
their clustered petals of peach and magenta
drenched under a day-long rain,
bow to the ground.
In a dim-lit room, eyes closed, head inclined,
a pale woman sinks ever deeper into the pillows.
No more struggle—our friend is preparing
to leave this world
as Earth turns toward the solstice
and catalpa trees hold aloft a creamy profusion
of ruffled blossoms, as if in offering
to the gray sky.
Stalks of daylilies rise in unison
by the south wall, slim sentries on the verge
of unfurling their bright orange trumpets
to announce the arrival of summer.
A native of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Sharon Hilberer lives and writes Minneapolis, Minnesota, where she has worked for many years with immigrant and refugee students. Her writing is found mostly in her friends’ in-boxes, but occasionally in publications including Kosmos Quarterly, Of Rust and Glass, and Moss Piglet.
the heavy heads of peonies,
their clustered petals of peach and magenta
drenched under a day-long rain,
bow to the ground.
In a dim-lit room, eyes closed, head inclined,
a pale woman sinks ever deeper into the pillows.
No more struggle—our friend is preparing
to leave this world
as Earth turns toward the solstice
and catalpa trees hold aloft a creamy profusion
of ruffled blossoms, as if in offering
to the gray sky.
Stalks of daylilies rise in unison
by the south wall, slim sentries on the verge
of unfurling their bright orange trumpets
to announce the arrival of summer.
A native of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Sharon Hilberer lives and writes Minneapolis, Minnesota, where she has worked for many years with immigrant and refugee students. Her writing is found mostly in her friends’ in-boxes, but occasionally in publications including Kosmos Quarterly, Of Rust and Glass, and Moss Piglet.
