Laura Rodley, a Pushcart Prize winner, has been nominated for the prize seven times and has also received five Best of the Net nominations. Her recent works include Turn Left at Normal (published by Big Table Publishing Company), Counter Point (published by Prolific Press), and Ribbons and Moths: Poems for Children (published by Kelsay Books). With a talent for capturing the essence of life, Rodley’s writing resonates with readers of all ages. Whether exploring the natural world or delving into human emotions, her words evoke a sense of wonder and connection. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PClY8G6HQwk

Learning Another Language

When I fell I flew,
so close to the ground
my wings protected my feet,
hovered while I placed
them in white hole-pocked sneakers
in crevasses besides pools
full of crayfish, silver shine
of mica, gold edging the eyes of frogs.
Learning my letters
veered my eyes close to the page
in front of me, black squiggles of promise.
Concentrating hard, I learned,
read pages of books.
But now when I fell I scraped my knees,
I fell hard on my palms,
grit embedded.
Somehow my wings had departed

no longer helping me step surely on the ground.

Haying

The winds blows hot, no let up,
best weather to dry hay
lying in fields for the gathering.
Used to be farmhands pitched it
to top of truck bed in loose clumps
no green baling twine needed
no timing chains, only gasoline
for truck or a horse-driven wagon.
Now one farmer cuts the field,
one farmer tedders the grass,
one farmer runs the baler,
one farmer in an air-conditioned cab
sweats his beer away as he rolls
up the layers of grass like linoleum
as he lets it sit in the field
overnight, as he returns to stack it
into his truck bed with a rented crane,
delivers it to his barn where it sleeps

with hundreds of others dreaming of blue skies.

Down the Street Where We Lived

At the wooden free box on River Street
we each reached in and pulled out
a perfect pair of jeans.
Diana pulled out a jacket
which she sorely needed,
pushed her long curly blonde hair
out of the way of its collar,
buttoned it up right away.
The free box was right beside
the Greek restaurant in Central Square
where my flatmate Hannah
consistently asked for the recipe
of their Greek dressing
and they consistently refused;
it was a family secret.
Sometimes the free box
held nothing of worth,
never seemed to be bothered by rain or snow-
the clothing store that managed it
must have brought it in or covered it.
Diana wore her jacket sitting on a
maroon Victorian sofa placed out
on the sidewalk by a red fire hydrant,
holding her cigarette in her left hand,
looked away while I snapped her picture,
my coyote-like dog Puppy
holding tight to my side, leashless.
Her short hair dark and sleek as a seal’s,
Hannah always spoke with firm authority,
even when she called goldfinches canaries,
so whenever some appear outside
our window we say, look at the canaries.
Puppy’s gone, Diana’s gone,
Hannah’s gone but I’m not.
I think I’m still here to remind you of them.