By Pat Anthony
Church ladies called them Resurrection lilies,
while the unchurched simply said Surprise.
The town wags snickered at all the
Naked Ladies sprung to bloom after that
hot August rain moistened bulbs tough
as the calloused hands of Kansas cattlemen.
Every year those bunches of pink blossoms
appeared in unusual places, buried in weeds
where an old homestead might’ve been, circling
leaning power poles, filling a ditch where a road was
cut long after the planting or snaking back into woods
from some long vanished driveway. Whorls
of pale pink blooms arranged like depression glass
come teatime, now collared by squirrel tail and brome,
wandering like jilted lovers in all their finery. They persist
beyond the rust of tin and wire, the ravage of fire and flood.
Flamboyant testimony to the need to plant hope alongside
the soddy, and on up the hill beside those the tiny headstones.
On the Wheel
My hands become the pot, the gray
slip spinning from the wheel, flying
like holy water from a baptismal sprinkling
until I’m fully immersed, my fingers
lost in the curling lip of the jar holding
the world like some spinning chalice and
offering up whatever lurks in the void.
Pat Anthony writes from the rural Midwest, getting inspiration from the rugged furrows of plowed ground and those on the faces of the men and women working the land. She draws from experience and observation, responding to the poetry she finds everywhere. She is recently retired from teaching and has work published or forthcoming in Third Wednesday, Snakeskin, Cholla Needles, Gryoscope, Songs of Eretz, The Avocet, Nature Writing and Waterways among others. You can also check out her blog at middlecreekcurrents.com