Jan 1, 2022
Air thick, not cold, still, moist.
Gray skies. The world is not
transformed by a vow or a wish.
A spider hangs above the chair next
to me, but I can't see from where its
web depends. Shakespeare's lines
about jealousy run through my head.
All the words we've been given. Or
have taken, like magpies from this branch
or that leaf. Patchwork. Has the spider
fallen into my cup? There are voices.
When silence comes it is marked by
a bird's call. In the bed next to this porch,
there is one perfect pink rose – could
I use my bare hands, break its stem?
A rose for love. For my love. Perhaps.
A neighbor two houses away drives
the small truck out of his driveway,
someone else gets in, they drive off.
Something is finished which I didn't
know was started. On the upstairs
balcony across the street someone is
moving a tree; he seems to be staring
at me, but perhaps is not. He goes
indoors. Now there is nothing but
the sound of one bird, close. A car
delivers a package to a house one away
from the neighbor's. I can't read its
orange sign. One way and another,
the world is hard to read. My coffee's
done. There's no spider in the empty
cup. A migration of small crows
gathers the day, flees with it.
Sandra Kohler’s third collection of poems, Improbable Music, (Word Press) appeared in May, 2011. Earlier collections are The Country of Women (Calyx, 1995) and The Ceremonies of Longing, (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2003). Her poems have appeared in journals including Beloit Poetry Journal, Slant, Prairie Schooner, The Gettysburg Review, and Tar River Poetry. In 2018, one of her poems was chosen to be part of Jenny Holzer’s permanent installation at the new Comcast Technology Center in Philadelphia.