Author Archives: janishaag

Summer haze convertsthe creamy half cup of moon anglingtoward the horizon into half a lemon slice— in another monththe coming wildfires will stain itblood orange

(after Nikita Gill) You are still the 8-year-old girl whobrightens at unexpected kindnesses— the boy on the playground at recesswho offers his sweater after he leans toward your small shell of an earto whisper that you have a spot on … Continue reading →

two states south toward home,solo this time, I anchor myselfto the window of the flying capsule with wings, lean myhead against the too-hotwindow, fascinated all over again—as I was when I firstflew as a child—by creamycolumns of clouds beneath me … Continue reading →

And what is more generous than a window?—Pat Schneider, from “The Patience of Ordinary Things” (for Terri and Al Wolf) You, dear friends,share your windows with so many,the views through the pinesto the cobalt canal beyondso luscious you can scoop … Continue reading →

Or maybe he’s just lonesomefor his people, and since I’mthe lone human in the house,half reclining, laptop on lap, he sidles up alongside meand places, with surprisingdelicacy for a ginormous cat,a paw the size of an egg on my chest. … Continue reading →

It is as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbordecided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,to a little fishing village where there are no phones. —Billy Collins, former U.S. Poet Laureate, from “Forgetfulness” ••• … Continue reading →

(for Georgann) Why today, of all days,when I drive to a small townwhere you used to take meto stroll and shop, I geta huge hit of you,I have no idea. But there you are,as present as the sun,equally bright, as … Continue reading →

(for Deborah Meltvedt on her 64th birthday) This is how I think of you:sitting inside a pasture fence,pen in hand, notebook on lap,grazing horses nearby, or standing at a fence to leta curious horse whiffle yourhand before you caress itsvelvety … Continue reading →

(for Cathy Tkach on ourPort Townsend, WA, walk) Here in the Pacific Northwestthe locals don’t blink athooved ones lying on lawnsor walking up the wrong sideof the road by the beach. But we flatlanders fromCalifornia are mesmerizedby these cud-chewing planteaters, … Continue reading →

and I am oddly stressed about it,as though I am back in the sixth gradewith Mrs. Keuter, who never crackeda smile the whole year, insisting thatwe recite in front of the class—aparticular kind of torture. I wrote poetry. I felt … Continue reading →