I figured this morning’s work would be blues writing. My friend’s son died the other
night according to a short email, but none of us know how, why or where.
spring’s goldfinch turns gold
This overcast sky displays as fish mottling, skin of a bottom dweller. Nothing is
blooming although it’s mid-April. My taxes are paid. I should be satisfied, but
I’m not. Yesterday our solar panels barely registered enough KWh to run the
vacuum. If I had felt like cleaning.
in black and white unknown
my mother’s sister
My writing never turned blue. I filled the bird feeder cups with mixes of seed that
promised to draw a crowd. First surprise, a redwing blackbird. First time at this
feeder. Early arrival. Next a yellow-bellied sapsucker muscled away two chickadees.
a red plastic bucket
overturned before snowfall
seen through fir trees
I remember my mother
who died a quarter of a century ago
after a coma sucked up her words.
She lost her pubic hair.
Her fingernails turned blue.
The quiet nurse from Ethiopia
opened the window a slice
despite January’s pelting
downpour, a north wind.
I asked if my mother’s body
smelled. I breathed winter.
She said she had to let
a spirit out or it would get
trapped in the hospice room,
in the death bed.
I thought it must weigh
less than a feather –
what went to meet the rain.
Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet whose work appears widely in journals, anthologies, and five collections. Most recent is Let’s Hear It for the Horses which received third place in the Poetry Box 2021 Chapbook Contest. She has two books coming in 2023 – One Bent Twig from Future Cycle Press and Wild Apples from Fernwood Press. Website: triciaknoll.com