I thought I had it down
with the poppies I planted,
the neat rows of corn.
I woke up dreaming it was in my grasp:
I could nail you, proverbial, like a loose board;
have you, perpetual, like the sun;
halve you, perennial, like the poppies—
more and more each year.
The Bluebirds returned with the babies they
fed beneath the clouds of last year’s summer flies.
The crickets sang to us in the evenings
reminded us of what we would later understand—
their babies would sing next year.
And we held each other.
Held on like each night was the last,
each day might reveal the hairline crack, the fracture
of what was otherwise circle.
Poem by Penny Freeland
Penny Freeland is a NYC transplant. When she heard the saying, teach on the beach, she took it to heart and moved to the Outer Banks of NC, which satisfies her need to be near the ocean. Her poetry is urban, yet full of nature, a reflection of her new surroundings. Her work has appeared in fine journals, such as Rattle, Black Rock and Sage, Red Booth Review, Eclectia and Bird & Dog. She teaches English at American Public University.