2 Poems – Beth Boylan

poems

Ash Wednesday

I keep finding you today:
in the line of souls waiting
for their ashes
and the church bells’
heavy toll,
the seagull circling
searching for others
miles lost
from our old shore,
here on the coffee table
a photo of you doing your best Bowie,
our book of Mary Karr
and compass—
if we had used it more precisely
could we have finally found each other
could it have pointed me toward you
that March night
when you sinned
we all sinned
and then
scattered you
among the pines and boulders
atop your favorite mountain
as if to atone.

Winter Sunday

our telephone wires slice lines through the gray sky,
trails for the geese flying south toward the mountains
where she shops for straps for her accordion
and whispers hello to the dark-eyed junco at her pane

a gentle, rare thing she is,
like a smooth wooden spoon
or a small silver ring
the glossy spruce curve of her mandolin

back up north
frost brushes feathers on glass,
hardens the ground and turns it brown
where there is no snow, the flowers below, like me,

awaiting spring.

Beth Boylan lives by the ocean in New Jersey and in the mountains of northern Georgia. She teaches high school English and is also an adjunct professor at Brookdale Community College. An avid bookworm and hiker, Beth has written poetry since she was a child growing up in New York.

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