As if it belonged there, as if
it were a feather released by that heron
flapping off, low to the water,
a mirror floats across the lake,
glass floating on glass.
A light breeze hums it along.
Shining on its surface, a few drops of water
wobble and settle into one another.
Small gleam of consciousness
between water and air, cloud
and reflection, the mirror
drifts. I wonder
what carries us, what can ever
be known. Soon the clouds
will smolder, their edges leaking gold
as darkness settles into sky and water.
The loon will warble its long,
haunting call. Something within me,
something beyond language,
will want to answer.
Sunlight settles warm on my arms
Yellow perch and mean-mouthed pike
troll below, through weeds that sway
like trees on a breezy day.
Like the fish, I swerve
in my fields of endeavor,
a shadow chasing shadows.
When the mirror snags in some lilies
I do not rescue it. Their stems are long
and tough. Their creamy blossoms,
a little ragged at the edges,
clutch small suns in their centers.
I would not call it tragedy, this
interrupted journey. To be held
by something that goes down
so deep, that opens so wide.
White Orchids Greet Me on Waking
Crowding the woody stem
twenty-three faces turn toward me
luminous white, their petals a flotilla
of sails. They become the children
I’ve held to my heart. And grandparents.
Aunts. Parents once so tall. Here are the
selves I’ve almost shed. This morning
they’ve come to call, dressed
in white petals. Now they’re a flock
of butterfly wings. They begin
to carry me away. I return lighter.
The memory of kindness fills my kitchen
where a world of white orchids has unfurled.
Ginny Lowe Connors is the author of two poetry collections: The Unparalleled Beauty of a Crooked Line and Barbarians in the Kitchen, as well as a chapbook, Under the Porch, winner of the Sunken Garden Poetry Prize Award. Connors lives in West Hartford, Connecticut, where she is an English teacher. She also serves as West Hartford’s Poet Laureate.