Hawkeyes

My protectors are trailing me 

lifted on the breeze like gliders 

as I walk the deserted path 

alone. 

I have never been attacked 

but I have an imagination.

I look up, am sheltered by the dark

immense wingspan

six sentries in the sky 

watching out for me. 

This is what I imagine

as the earth greens under

a gray sky, in the still, cool air

of an early Spring dusk

when no one is walking in the woods

but me.

© 2021 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

Dandelion

Flashing golden in the sun 

like a buttercup or a bumblebee, 

your soft, sunny face 

recklessly jubilant 

in empty lots, 

sidewalk cracks, 

abandoned gardens. 

You love to pop up 

like a little joke in the tidiest yards. 

Homeowners yank and spray at your unyielding roots, 

but like a wild horse or a runaway train, 

there’s no stopping you, dandelion. 

Abundant and enthusiastic as the third chakra, 

you delight children everywhere 

who know your secret 

edible milky stem 

and how a friend who likes butter will glow yellow 

when your bright blossom is held 

under her chin.

At the window

Nuthatch, woodpecker, wren, cardinal 

dancing in the dormant 

forsythia 

darting and daring 

taking turns 

at the just-filled feeder 

I stand still 

two minutes 

after shuffling in slippers 

across worn wooden floors 

to marvel 

at your freedom

One more poem to end the year

What I believe 

I believe in drinking whiskey in a sunset 

or the ginger fur of a cat splayed out 

in a golden slice of afternoon. 

I believe in the constancy and comfort 

of warm yeast and apples. While 

a potted hibiscus in a backyard in Illinois 

is an act of rebellion, I believe. 

I believe there should be as many words for love 

as there are for clouds or colors. 

When you see a ghost, 

it’s best to call it by name, I believe. 

And while there is no cure for heartache, 

I believe the smallest surprises, 

like a group of ladybugs being called a loveliness, 

are a balm. 

I believe in rubber boots and garden gloves 

and chainsaws to tear down the overgrowth 

blocking my view. I believe 

the dead can feed the living 

in shredded bark and last year’s leaves 

or in what was penned by poets and prophets 

and people who loved trees. 

I believe in getting some air and taking a lap 

or another loop around the block. 

I believe in downward-facing dog. 

I believe most bad moods can be cured 

in a hammock, with a clear view of the sky. 

As difficult as it can be, I believe in rest.

© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

Tonight I walk with Mary Oliver

Tonight I walk with Mary Oliver 

“Attention,” she says, “is the beginning of devotion.” 

At home I slice the last ripe tomato 

Lifting each bite dressed in salt and olive oil 

to the tick of the wall clock 

3 minutes slow in the kitchen 

Like it was an 80 degree day 

Like I was barefoot 

kneeling in my crumbling garden box 

harvesting from plant to mouth 

Like a child 

A trail of juice on the counter 

Each finger licked 

Amen 

© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

ode to Friday

a paintbrush would tell a better story

of the leaves darkened into crisp silhouettes against the periwinkle sky

of the waxing September moon like a ghost at 7 pm

of the pinpricks of warm yellow light popping on in windows across the street 

but the picture of a Friday evening in early autumn on the back patio

dinner cleaned up, computer closed, child biking one last loop around the neighborhood

while the crickets and katydids blanket us in a bedspring chorus

can only be painted in a poem

© 2020 Amy Wolgemuth Bordoni

roses for Jody

He visits her grave
every couple weeks
and texts me photos
of the roses he leaves
in her memory.

I prefer roses in my kitchen
where I can remember her
20 times a day.