Costel Iarca © 2008 All Rights Reserved
She is of a divided mind in her haiku-house,
south side buried in earth,
north side opening to spring sun, neon
excess of ferns, softened by a stand
of white birch, bark peeling back.
Winter has a hold of her. It will not let go.
White tulips in clear glass,
scattering of pine cones. I count five in all.
Rice paper screen filters light.
A single black pen rests on a pad
of clean white paper.
Written scraps hidden away in memory.
Pin numbers have been erased.
Autumn leaves, pressed in coffee-table books,
stacked high as snowdrift
lose their color.
Two black-and-whites lean against
a leafless ginkgo tree on one,
the other—a couple in a southern European city,
backdrop of baroque building, long as a city block
—their eyes shut against sunlight.
Kathleen Fagley is a 2005 graduate of the New England College MFA program. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in the Comstock Review, Concrete Wolf, Poet’s Touchstone, Slipstream, CutThroat and her non-fiction in Exceptional Parent. She was a March 2007 featured poet on the New Hampshire State Council of the Arts’ website.
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