Tag Archives: Linda Pastan

Blowing her dandelion breath.

March 15, 2024nature, poetryLinda Pastan, March, springGretchenJoanna

This afternoon I had to throw off my sweater before I took a walk. I keep being surprised that it’s not chillier, and have to remind myself that it’s March, after all. January and February flew past, maybe because I went on trips out of state both months, and didn’t pay attention to the home front.

I’m hoping that my schedule will be quieter during April. Orthodox Lent and Pascha are very late this year — Lent doesn’t begin until Monday the 18th of March — and I expect to stay home all of April, and let my friends come to visit me. So far two of them are planning to do that. I’m opening my arms to Spring!

SPRING

Just as we lose hope
she ambles in,
a late guest
dragging her hem
of wildflowers,
her torn
veil of mist,
of light rain,
blowing
her dandelion
breath
in our ears;
and we forgive her,
turning from
chilly winter
ways,
we throw off
our faithful
sweaters
and open
our arms.

-Linda Pastan

Dark forms yearning upward.

December 3, 2022death, nature, poetry, treesDecember, Linda Pastan, verticalityGretchenJoanna

VERTICAL

Perhaps the purpose
of leaves is to conceal
the verticality
of trees
which we notice
in December
as if for the first time:
row after row
of dark forms
yearning upwards.
And since we will be
horizontal ourselves
for so long,
let us now honor
the gods
of the vertical:
stalks of wheat
which to the ant
must seem as high
as these trees do to us,
silos and
telephone poles,
stalagmites
and skyscrapers.
but most of all
these winter oaks,
these soft-fleshed poplars,
this birch
whose bark is like
roughened skin
against which I lean
my chilled head,
not ready
to lie down.

– Linda Pastan

Like children at this spectacle.

November 10, 2018death, poetryautumn, Linda PastanGretchenJoanna

NOVEMBER

It is an old drama
this disappearance of the leaves,
this seeming death

of the landscape.
In a later scene,
or earlier,
the trees like gnarled magicians
produce handkerchiefs
of leaves
out of empty branches.

And we watch.
We are like children
at this spectacle
of leaves,
as if one day we too
will open the wooden doors
of our coffins
and come out smiling
and bowing
all over again.