Wednesday, December 12, 2012


When did I get used to it, the broken heart,
say to myself I'd rather live with it than die of it?

Daffodils and crocuses rise from their dark bulbs
with an inner glow. It surprises me

that Emily Dickinson is still read today and still
sentimentalized and misunderstood.

I like to watch the girl down the street glide
home on her bike, older and taller every day.

The sun at my back makes an animal of my writing hand.
Elms feather out new leaves but not the sycamores.

The calla lily is the most masculine of flowers
with its green sheathes, but then it opens, hermaphrodite.

Love always has a vein of bitter ore running through it.
We diverge. The shadows are long. It is Lent.

About Jane Blue:
Jane Blue has been published in Pirene's Fountain, FutureCycle, The Innisfree Poetry Journal, The Chattahoochee Review, as well as previously in The Montucky Review, and quite a few other places, both print and on-line, including antholgies, books and chapbooks. She was born and raised in Berkeley, California but now lives near the Sacramento River. She generally likes Sacramento and finds inspiration there, a city of trees and urban wildlife.

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