Bio: Chani Zwibel is a poet originally from Elizabeth, a small town in rural
Western Pennsylvania. She now lives and writes in Smyrna, Georgia, just outside
of Atlanta. She is the author of Cave Dreams to Star Portals, Star
Portals to Cash Registers, and Cash Registers to Cave Dreams.
LETTER HOME TO SISTER
Dear Autumn,
I dreamed about
coming home,
and now I know.
I want to live in a
moss-covered cottage window
where daffodils
grow on the bones of an old house,
long ago buried by
forest
in the wild
mountain backyard of our grandparents’ house.
Even though in
Pennsylvania,
it’s always cold
and rainy,
I still want to
save our history.
My mind recalls a family
of turkey
crossing the road
next to a graveyard.
Hills and hollows
crisscrossed with bad back roads full of potholes.
Northern winter
gives me a deep mourning,
cold in my bones
and in my heart.
Let’s take a walk
to where the old ghosts stay
and take pictures
and wait
for the green snake
to slither through the grass,
a signal to
go.
Believe in the last
of the trees
and we might be
able to save the fairies we used to see.
Take a truck with
good tires to get there.
Long after we’re
gone, the stars will tumble on,
reflected in the
creek.
GRIEF AS LANDSCAPE, WITH TWO FEMALE
CARDINALS
Grief is a
landscape,
a long field,
a hilly terrain.
As I traverse it,
I cannot tell
how far I’ve come,
or how far still
I’ve yet to travel.
When it’s a summer
field,
mirage lines waver
in the distance,
mimic far off
water,
as each step takes
me no closer
to where they cease
their teasing dance
and become real
springs.
When it’s a winter
field,
wet with cold rain,
glistening all in silver,
long grasses, hung
with dewdrops like glass beads,
I wander.
My grandmothers are
two cardinals,
dusty red coats
flitting over
sodden brush pile
landing on drenched
metal fence.
SOOTHING
I’d like my life
to be like a Bob
Ross painting-
Clear coat of slick
liquid
applied so every
brushstroke,
loaded with color
would go on
as an application
in ease,
full of happy
little trees.
Then, when you have
a perfect, pleasant
valley,
scrape away some
paint with a knife
and drop a cabin
down-
A dwelling place
for your dreams,
Love the transformative power of your Grief poem. Our loved ones live within the nature we observe, as Spirit.
ReplyDelete"LETTER HOME TO SISTER" brought tears to my eyes. I read it to my sister who lives thousands of miles far from me. Thank you for this heart-catching poetry.
ReplyDeleteThank you Soodabeh! I'm glad it touched you.
DeleteThank you, Dustin!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Dustin!
ReplyDeleteMy grandmothers are two cardinals,
ReplyDeletedusty red coats
flitting over sodden brush pile
landing on drenched metal fence.
What beautiful lines. You capture place so well.
Thank you Donna :)
ReplyDelete