by Barbara Daniels

A socket, for example, its open
eyes. And what does a junco
mean, scratching through snow,
making its quiet calls? Don’t tell me

it’s nothing, broken sticks
in the shape of an X, two suns,
one a quiet reflection, clouds
folded on the horizon, trees hungry

for air and light. Let’s drink to
what can be socketed, shadow
to wall, mouth to an ear. The moth
still on the windowsill is only

a little death. Why should
it feel like the edge of a chasm?
Everything says we’re older,
ice pulling gutters down, leaves

jumbling together in rising wind.
I’d like to think days of soft rain
will come, our window smeared
with pollen, fragrant lilies by our bed.


BARBARA DANIELS’ book Rose Fever was published by WordTech Press and her chapbooks Black SailsQuinn & Marie, and Moon Kitchen by Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press. Her poetry has appeared in Prairie SchoonerWomenArtsMid-American ReviewThe Literary Review, and many other journals. She received three Individual Artist Fellowships from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts.


Photo: “Dotted Border Moth” by Paul Seligman