A fitting verse for Thanksgiving. Steve is a great poet and friend, and I love his nothin’-but-the-truth recounting of his dad’s eating adventures.
Author: Sarah Russell
Retired professor and editor, now writing poetry and short fiction.
Colleague
When he calls from the conference
and says he met her, after months
of email discussing their research,
I see the first whiff of smoke
rising out of the forest,
the one you have to be close to notice,
and think you could put out yourself
if the garden hose reached that far,
the first seconds of wondering
where the important papers are,
the photographs, the cat.
– Sarah Russell
First published in One Sentence Poems
Pushcart!
Gotta crow! I’m over the moon. My poem “A Gospel of Birds” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Psaltery and Lyre. I posted it awhile back. Here’s the link.
Cat Nap
The cat invited me to fill my lap
with heavy, lithe contentment.
We curled together on the couch,
purring pressure as she arched her neck
against my hand, languid comfort,
her body nestling into mine.
I roused, my hand still stroking lightly
in my sleep, cat vanished to other ventures,
the niche indented by her form
still vibrant with her warmth,
my fingertips caressing air
in silken touch remembrance.
– Sarah Russell
First published in Purrfect Poetry Anthology
Invitation
We found a stream that night
away from everywhere but us –
water voices whispering,
the honey of first times,
wind feathery on urgent skin.
Perhaps a folly, our rush
into together and tomorrow –
forever’s promissory note
before the debt of everyday.
Let’s go back
and lie beside the stream again,
listen for the water voices,
feel the wind’s breath
before we disappear.
– Sarah Russell
First published in The Houseboat
Sustenance
When glacial bogs blush with berries
it’ll be a hard winter, folks say.
He is cutting down the dead pine near the cabin,
beetle-killed by drought last summer.
His chainsaw knows the hearth’s width
without measuring.
I went to the orchard on Route 5,
bought peaches for canning.
The kitchen smells of sweetness —
furry skins sloughed off with blanching,
floor juice-sticky.
He comes in for lunch,
fills the room with flannel and sawdust.
“A lot of work,” he says.
“Yes,” I answer.
We eat warmed over stew.
He cleans his plate with bread crust and pushes back his chair.
“Back at it,” he mutters and opens the door.
A cold wind makes gooseflesh on my arms
as I set the pint jars of preserves
in steaming water to make them sterile.
– Sarah Russell
First published in The Houseboat
Reprinted in WAVES: A Confluence of Women’s Voices
On Kebler Pass
dust the ferns with my ashes —
there, among the aspen
trembling gold against the sky.
Let them settle, sighing,
on the still warm earth of autumn
where the next peak calls your name.
Snow will come. The wind will show me
paths the doe and vixen know. The moon
will call me with her crescent mouth
and share stories of the embered stars.
– Sarah Russell
First published in Poppy Road Review
Indian Summer
I hike the ridge on the last warm, tousled day,
speckled as a partridge egg,
sun already stilting
shadows in early afternoon.
The leaves
are October butterflies, crimson, gold.
I want to stop earth’s tilt-a-whirl right here,
hold this moment that feels so much like love
before the winter’s swordsmith hones his blade.
– Sarah Russell
First published in Poppy Road Review
The Poems are in The Soil – A Poem by Rebecca Villineau
Such fine words on the excavation of poetry.
The Poems are in The Soil
Beneath the rocks and broken brick
Below the fossils of cat bones
They are there
Fertilizing the ground
Adding phosphorus and calcium
Mulching through the earthworms
I am full of distractions
So I must dig
First loosening the crab grass
Twisting to the fine thick earth
To where there is the possibility of rare stones
Where my anscesters have lost their keys and rings
To where the dirt tells stories
Of children, like myself
Filling buckets from the garden hose
Adding grass, stone and soil
To the imaginary soup
We all know that God is in the details
Not the rock and brick
But the particles
And the invisible stuff
The way it feels when
The words are unearthed
First startling with their brown scaled skin
How they camouflage
at the base of a boxwood
Sometimes they are found
From just wandering the garden
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Augury
I stopped for groceries after work.
Jeff will be late again tonight.
“Don’t wait up,” he always says.
I hate these country roads at night –
twisting, full of ruts. I woke
this morning choking back a scream,
but the dream escaped
with the trembling.
I round a bend, see movement
in the willows. Slow, I tell myself.
It’s probably nothing.
– Sarah Russell
First published in Black Poppy Review
Sarah Russell Poetry 