Sun again:
that geode cold light
that briefly splits the granite sky:
storms there: storms there:
darker because of this
temporary brightness.
The first shadows in a week
like inkfade ancient tattoos
impermanent crease crosshatched
on the last of the blue wash snow.
And the red and cream lilies
you stem snapped two days ago
despite again March like thaw water
still pollen fill the living room
with the smell of blossoming
which for them is the smell
of fade dying:
but not yet:
but not today.
John Walser
John Walser’s poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Spillway, Water-Stone Review, Plume, Posit and december magazine. His manuscript Edgewood Orchard Galleries has been a finalist for the Autumn House Press Prize, the Ballard Spahr Prize, and the Zone 3 Press Prize, as well as a semifinalist for the Philip Levine Prize and the Crab Orchard Series First Book Award. A four-time semifinalist for the Pablo Neruda Prize, as well as a Best New Poets, a Pushcart, and a Best of the Net nominee, John is a professor of English at Marian University and lives in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, with his wife, Julie.