A winter rowan fills the frame 
Red fruit topped by fierce cold                                 snow    
Everlasting January arctic flow. 

The western sky hardens 
Long grey arch                                                           forms 
At the edges of the river valley. 

Magpies quiet. Chickadees                                     still 
Wait. Nothing moves. 
What holds the warm west wind?
 
Not a twitch. Not a quiver. 
Anticipation rests on the                                         frozen 
Berried branch. Anticipation begs. 

Anticipation rustles the wing-tip                            feathers  
Of a high-flying goose. 
Squirrels twitch in their estivation. 

Waiting. Anticipation holds.                                    inhabiting 
Holding space for                                                     the dream of   
A touch of warmth. 

​Previously published in HWY 22: Poetry, Songspiel and Rant by SallyV Truss (Passwords Enterprises).

in our prairie town only the common
purple walked along
our path to school (syringa vulgaris)
a hardy wind-break
imported from Europe no different than
us kids now growing
wildly desperate for summer they were
our clocks
marking days to our release, end of June.
 
Mid-May, sepia beads crept out on branch
tips slowly sprouting into green pearls tied
in knots awaiting the last frost sometimes
 
a rogue storm
seized lime green leaves, hearts already unfurled.
Trembling under snow
Shivering they breathed keeping their feet warm
 
soon blossoms foamed like
shampoo on a baby’s head, bees homed in
excited as kids danced with joy after
six months of winter shed our heavy snow
pants boots toques mitts earmuffs daring to tread
early morning hard puddles relish that
Crack, sweet as toffee breaking on cement
afternoon rubber boots sloshing in mud
we stretched for flowers
wresting a few from their two-fisted grip
on the branch tearing
the stems always too
short to reach the water in our only
vase (a Mason jar)
they flopped like ballerinas purple with
fatigue dying of
thirst
 
Morning bundled soggy newspaper to
Teacher. Many such limp bouquets had she
received from small hands
since
we had nothing else to give so shyly
presented these & she bestowed her smile.
 
We inhaled the perfumed cloud already
ripe with the scent of
full books.
So near the open door we leapt as sun
bleached tiny violet stars burnt to a
crisp.
June slid home we kicked
the can hiding giggling in lilacs dark
with old tired leaves.
 
​“Our childhood smelled of lilacs,” Canadian Authors’ Association, National Capital Branch, 100th Anniversary Competition, Anthology 2021 Building Community, Honourable Mention

Sometimes 
the sadness  
of sister 
comes through 
the I AM space 
between my eyes 

She was such 
a soft soul 
part of me 
myself  
and I of her 

I remember 
her newborn 
daughter’s 
head as 
it crowned 

I still see  
her embracing 
my children 
enfolding them 
in her loving arms 

Now our village 
is populated  
by pestilence 
A recurring 
viral dis—ease 

that keeps her  
from me 
and her 
from the world 
of her own 
beautiful gifts

​the doe hesitates
then lowers her head
 
the meadow quiet
save for the soft crunch
 
of her hooves.  today
sparrow and grosbeak
 
puffed in their nests, the sun
lost behind mountains and
 
cloud.  cedars line the
perimeter of this yard
 
reaching forty feet in the
air, seedlings at their
 
knees.  the deer looks
up — does she see me
 
in the window or catch
the scent of my dog
 
behind glass?  she
hesitates, sniffs again
 
the fragrant green boughs
of cedar then lowers her head

​This poem will also appear in the upcoming Stroll of Poets 2026 Anthology.

She waits atop her luminous crystal pond.
Waits patiently for the electrostatic discharge to connect her to the Hindu gods.
Agni-fire, a place on earth.
Yaya-wind, a place in the air.
Surya-sun, a place in the sky. She
Waits to sing the Vedic songs to Brahma.

Lifting her hands in supplication, throat bare, breasts bare, she tilts her head toward the heavens
and raises her voice,
sings boldly, sings loudly
volume higher and higher,
thunderous enough for the gods to hear.

Waits for the storm that follows, a bolt from the blue, intra-cloud, cloud to cloud,
cloud to ground, it cracks the base, moves along
as like a serpent with forked-lightning tongue,
winding, curling, meandering around her powerful legs,
her supple body, making a direct target of the heart,
moving over her braided, twisted hair
to attach to third eye chakra,
Waits to perceive another cosmic vision beyond the physical.

Tribar symbol on a single arm, 
equivalence of two, positive and negative
energy.

Waits for her power, she sends shockwaves, an inferno into the space below.
Historians claim that fire-gazing meditatum made us human, invigorates our brains.

The flower of the sacred lotus grows out of mud. 
Padmasana.
​
She has blossomed. She is serene, she is formidable, she 
Waits for Savasana.

About Patricia (Wourms) Gallagher
​I have been writing poetry since I was a teen-ager, but more seriously in recent years. My professional background is in radio and television broadcasting, and I spent many years in marketing and broadcast management. I retired four years ago. This poem was written as part of a 52-week ekphrastic challenge with a close friend and writing partner.

Do you know the tale of the boy
who got a glass splinter in his eye and heart?
He no longer viewed the world
as safe and beautiful
until the tears from his lover
made him whole again.
 
While love can do wonders,
it is not enough to close wounds
a lover isn’t willing to work on themselves.
Their grief is not your glue
but a sign to do the work,
while they're still willing to hold your hand.
 
from Fairy Tales for Hopeless Girls by Rena Joy

​The moths have their own religion
one of colour and flight
fuzzy feelers searching for luminescence
not so different from us humans
following our flights of fancy
allowing our imaginations
to pave the way for our good intentions
not always fulfilled
but we try
with Sunday school children
and church bazaars
Sunday sermons and tapioca pudding
searching for heights
and falling from grace
like the moths
obsessed with the light

Previously published in The Coachella Review in April, 2020

The carpet  
yellows  

a fly whistles  
to the memories  

stuck  
in the  
shag  

A body 
folds up at the seams  

like dough 

beneath a cotton towel  


Rice pudding sours  
lone  
on the oilcloth  

Purple marker 

your budding signature  

frames  

the removal  
of the  
​
carpet 

soft winter light shadows
lavender on the wall
hot oatmeal breakfast
lemon tea on the stove
 
freshly starched rose-laces
steaming iron in hand
uniform collar, cuffs, ribbon
whiteness anew for each day
 
wool leggings I wear itchy
under my dress heat
baba says girls need extra
protection
against angry storm winds
 
notebooks, ink pens, ruler  
navy-blue bag at the door
that morning lingered away
sooner
fifty years ago, today
 
Spring, 2026
​

​Don’t tell me about the stadium lights,
tell me about the grass.
 
Put on your shoes
the train doesn’t run there anymore
the streets gleam like linseed oil.
 
When my throat closed,
I couldn’t eat the plates of cookies or the casseroles
and I had no way of using all those cut flowers.
 
Don’t tell me about the stadium lights –
tell me about the parking spaces
and the leaning trees
and the lying down
on the other side of the bayou, where the on-ramp
bends to meet the interstate.

Previously published in Passager