Sandra Kohler, four poems

Snapshot: Late Winter

In my garden, lichen patches

the color of palest jade stud

a brown-gray tree trunk,

each cluster a flower form

compounded of tiny petals

budding in the wintry light.

We’ve come out to the garden

with our small grandchildren,

who love snow, winter’s grasp,

a rigor at which we shudder.

The old are not like children,

children are not like the old.

The countries they live in

are equally distant islands off

the main coast of adulthood,

that severe headland. Bodies

burgeoning, bodies aging:

life, death; decay, bloom.

Katie Becoming Poet


When Katie announces that she wants

to go to paleontologist school, I say it’s

a cool thing to be. What else is, she asks.

I list computer programmer (like Papa

she says), lawyer (Mama), teacher, poet,

archaeologist...She says she will be poet

and archaeologist and paleontologist.


Katie comes downstairs, asks me to write

down her poem for her. It’s about Ella,</