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Month 4:1

My daughter heads out alone to the pond
to photograph tree limbs, their scepters of ice
bestowed by a storm as regal and beautiful,
as evil to the eye, as The Snow Queen.

by Therese L. Broderick

Month 3:15

A silent night at 391 West Lawrence Street.

A silent night at 392. From each front window,

fast-blinking lights tweet their glad tidings.

 

(CLICK TO LISTEN)

by Therese L. Broderick

Month 3:11

In the auto showroom, I estimate

how many petrochemicals

are fueling the yuletide display —

one artificial tree, mid-sized.

 

by Therese L. Broderick

Month 3:3

The weekend when we gain an hour of morning,

my nephew teaches me the essentials between

grass & vetch, rivers & creeks, lakes & ponds. He,

the welcome added light to my steadily falling back.

 

by Therese L. Broderick

 

 

Month 3:1

Today the news of your illness made the yellow hearts

heaped beneath their birch tree look untimely, jaundiced.

As if felled instead by an unfair Spring, too hot, too early.

 

by Therese L. Broderick

 

 

Month 2:19

The squirrel who’s always hurry-scurrying

across my porch,  snatching pieces

of the largest pumpkin, gnashing its flesh,  

stops, today, for just one moment

to stand tall upon his vegetable, nose high,

front paws laid one over the other

on the woody stem’s crook.  Arisen,

a preacher at his golden pulpit.

 

 

by Therese L. Broderick

Month 2:12

A baby penguin kept warm in its father’s pouch —

like a Seckel pear, handled with care

until ripe.

 

by Therese L. Broderick

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