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

The Distance

To travel on your tongue
cross hot sand, tidal pools,

is that not the work of snails,
periwinkles, conchs and whelks,

constantly lifting the edge
of your tongue, your feet,

the snail climbing over crystallized dirt,
up the tomato plant’s leaf,

or leaf of an eggplant and devouring it.
The taste of the earth your entrée, your dessert,

the sharp lemon tang of tomato leaves your perfume.
Does the earth tell you her secrets as you linger?

Does she exhale the heaviness of oil and radiant heat?
So brave you are to trundle across stones, or sand

while I sleep, so secure, for there’s
nothing else you must do.

Shadow Hands

The birch dispenses with being cute
just after erupting from her seed,
her two leaves couched in sunlight
breathing in green, breathing out clarity
then her thin thumb springs out of the ground,
a finger’s worth, a thigh’s height,
then taller than a man,
who isn’t even noticing
how tall she’s grown,
just how her cool leaves
provide cool shade for his shoulders,
that he wishes would be more.

Pie

Friends, I give you pie:
pumpkin, praline,
key lime, with a graham cracker crust
angel pie, with temperamental meringue;
so cold, it’s the perfect temp
to fluff egg whites with sugar,
and oh, Black Bottom Pie,
heavy on the rum please,
and light on the salt, heavy cream;
whole eggs, yellow yolks, too.
And peach pie, if you canned them
this turgid summer, round and ripe
pink and plush, lie them down
upon the bed of crust, cover with sugar,
flour, lemon juice, what ease
to eat what you please,
and apple pie, cinnamon-ed up,
give me seconds!

Roundabout

Breaking bread with green vested hummingbirds
clouds high, dragonflies hovering, the third

week of August, breaking point of summer,
last swims; dark comes earlier, a glimmer

that worries the dragonflies not at all.
Where did they buy the lace for their long shawls,

their wings that catapult them through the air
so much space to fly in and yet they share

all of it with each other, hovering
a jump-rope of flight, crossing paths, then fling

up into the evergreens, a challenge
to sight them, so lost, then caught on the fringe

seesawing humid air, living on what
nectar hummingbirds leave behind, a glut.