New Poetry by Heather Sager

Sounds of June 

I walk into a bright morning.

The trees make the hectic sound of wind blowing.

The green grass sings

and the sky teems with white and gray 

clouds, tall as schooners. 

The sky’s blue depth welcomes me.

I touch the leaves of a locust tree. 

The spindly leaf radiates, verdant and green.

I marvel: in winter the tree limb stood gray,

now I shake this leaf that resembles a hand.

A blue-black dragonfly whirs past.

I sneak past the siding of some houses

to find 

a green dragonfly 

clinging to a garden hose,

incognito.

My house stands in the distance— 

I cling like the darner to a shadow

to admire the shape of hearth and home

from a safe distance.

- © Heather Sager 2020

Heather Sager lives in Illinois. Her recent poetry appears in Amethyst Review, Visitant, Door Is A Jar, dreams walking, Harbinger Asylum, The Wild Word, Backchannels, Sandpiper, Writing in a Woman's Voice, Ariel Chart, and elsewhere. Heather also writes fiction, most recently for The Fabulist Words & Art and Slippage Lit.