Jennifer Cahill Poet Prose Poetry

Nearer the Sky

We used to live next 
to a respite, set nearer the sky. 
My mother told me 

they who pass through spent 
days or nights there, sometimes months; 
it was necessary 

to not see their troubles.  
Winters froze the edges, suns 
sank, and rose,  gold-dust 

pink seam radial 
to warm the heavens. In summers 
we were cloaked 

in flour soft green. 
When the spectral trees' branches
part, we see them-

a figure or two resting-   
red embers of a cigarette 
zigzagging, a thrust 

into the air 
when a point is made. The lights 
of distant blue hills 

shine. Anguish simmers,
as seductive as the eye 
of a hurricane..

a squirrel's claws click
on the bark of a lush maple,
and a wet pavement

reflects the light of skies,
and palpitations don't
stop a morning jog.

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