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

Evening Chores

Cinnamon and Violet waited at the gate,
both cinnamon colored, with flaxen mane,
Violet was Cinnamon’s miniature, in Shetland form,
Cinnamon a haflinger cross, following Violet’s lead
in all escapes. If we did not arrive by dusk,
their signal to return home, Violet pressed on
the top wire, her coat not shaggier than
Cinnamon’s. As lightning bugs danced
in the orchard, I bridled Cinnamon,
then unhitched the lines of the barbed wire fence,
let Violet start trotting up the hill,
led Cinnamon to the boulder on the left,
hitched myself bareback onto her strength,
and herded Violet up to the home pasture,
sometimes trotting, sometimes not, the paved road
echoing; when it turned to dirt, sullen thuds.
New people bought the corner house, the corner
pasture, gave them permission to stay,
lawn ornaments for their guests to view.
When Violet passed, we did not want
Cinnamon down there, pastured alone.
When he ran the Bridge of Flowers 5K race,
my husband Jim crested Heartbreak Hill,
steep and arduous, catching his breath,
resumed running down the other side,
heard the tip tap of Violet’s dainty hooves,
felt her running beside him,
the warmth of her exhale, the comfort
she always emanated, her bliss.

Harnessed

As though she is a horse
she bucks and shies,
lunges away
from the reality of the pacemaker
that sits above the breastplate
over her heart, she fights
with her forelegs against all its
adjustments, the wireless scanner
keeping track in her bedroom,
she bucks and twirls, leaps the fence
of the pasture which
is her body.

Fresh From the Vine

My father stood on his hands to dive off the diving board,
all six foot four inches of him suspended in air,
curling his fingers around the hard edge of the gritty grey board,
and dove off. He never missed.
The last time I saw him do this,
his ring cut into his ring finger
from the weight of him standing.
Down he dove. His ring had to be cut off
and he needed stitches, the chlorinated blue pool water
acting as a preliminary antiseptic
because the wound didn’t get infected,
but I don’t remember if they gave him back
the two sawn off halves of the ring,
or if they kept them like they kept the cast
when my cast got sawn off my arm,
broken in two like a loaf of dry French bread
from falling out of the tree-house.
A retired industrial engineer,
my father remains very fond of numbers.
Right now, if you called him, he could tell you exactly
how many tomato plants he has planted- eight,
and exactly how many tomatoes he has picked- seventeen -,
and how many are on the way: twenty-four.
Legally blind with macular degeneration,
he uses his fingers as his eyes
and shadows to tell him what to pick;
a big red tomato appears as a brown shadow
as opposed to the nothingness of the air around it
and that’s what he reaches for, the shadow,
curling his fingers around the shadow
to pick the ripe tomato that he eats right away.

Tiny Steps

for Donna

The way seven-seven-seven was your lucky number
and you’d email me pictures of license plates
that carried that number. How you complained
at the Concert Hall about the chemical smells from
cleaning solvents they used and got a free concert
night, can’t remember what we saw. How you loved
horses, hobnobbed at Saratoga with jockeys, one
of whom became a famous horse portraitist after too
many falls stopped him from racing. When you were
racing towards your finish line, neck to neck
with cancer, you took his painting off the wall,
handed it to me. Put it back, I said. I’m not ready.