It feels like the earth might start
to shudder. I’m scared of being trapped
in a house I know or a world I don’t,
and what will I grab on the way out—
perhaps this painted stone I own,
greenish blue with a golden hummingbird
on one flat side and the word Love on the other.
Last July when my sister and I needed a real dose
of summer, we drove to an outdoor craft fair,
windows open, our masks on. The several tables
were spread out, the sun unfazed. We stopped
in front of a table where a mother had stacked
crocheted Christmas ornaments like knotted hope
and her daughter, her head just above the table’s surface,
sat on a folding chair in front of a little wall
of painted stones. It’s the only thing
I touched, her smile touching me
when I handed her two dollars.
That’s what I’ll save—run outside
under the frozen stars and kneel
on our trembling planet
with love and a bird in my palm.
________
Sarah Dickenson Snyder has three poetry collections. Nominated for Best of Net, she was the Poetry Prize winner of Art on the Trails and a Finalist for Iron Horse National Poetry Month Award. Recent work is in Rattle and RHINO.
