Jane Vincent Taylor
Jane Vincent Taylor was schooled by nuns. One told her to read Edna St. Vincent Millay. Now Jane has degrees three different degrees: women's studies, information science, creative writing. Her true education came from teaching 20 years at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico. Her book of narrative poems, The Lady Victory, was adapted for the stage at Michigan State. Her most recent book; Let There Be Swimming, was written during the summer of the pandemic lockdown. If Jane has another decade she intends to be a better pollinator. Come on, you butterflies. Feed on the beauty.
News:
Taylor's book, "Let There Be Swimming" is available. Visit their website for more details and to read more: JaneVincentTaylor.blogspot.com
Cover art: Marissa Raglin
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Time Off the Path
We all agreed to step off the path
hike and help each other down
steep leafy banks, slide creek-wise
stealth as bluff creek deer.
We listened to water burp and breathe
over fallen blackjack oak, pinon pine.
Far away we heard a dog we called coyote.
Two ducks were bathtub toys gone free together.
We knew their floating thoughts.
One of us was for the moment just a child.
The one with a brand new walking stick was old.
One of us was ghost disguised
as a small crochet of gnats
delicate and slap-worthy
as summer spirits always are.
Some Things I Know About My Keeper
She knows nothing about orchids
and how we live - nodal, sympodial
how we find a way to bud and flower
in a dry pocket of rhizome roots
My new keeper also lives on the lip
and shape of air, moist and steamy
She sleeps and wakes and sleeps
then spends her small energies
moving me from table to desk
to counter top, to ironing board
She's decided I do best in east light
and company of birds, the ones
she prays to for blue renewal
and scolds for red wing avarice
In the night I hear her dreaming
of her silken self, her orchid days
Few words pass between us
I say anthur cap and sepal, she says
over a pot of fennel tea, wren
rock dove, shantung maple tree
When she sits with her white page
I do my best to scent the room
Labellum I suggest, but she says no
that word won't do, won't work today
My keeper is an old inflorescince
dictionary, a leathery leaf
Together
we help each other breathe.
My Next Door
Sometimes I suspect the neighborhood Facebook app deliberately stirs up trouble. Someone fears a beat up truck, or a blue Sedan parked too long on a side street or a foreign face, or a lost coyote in the park at night.
Today's report: 40 Robins gathered at the corner of May and Grand. Are they a gang, feathered swoop, a band, a February orchestra? Are they a day patrol, a committee, an ad hoc hoard? Is this a red breast pop-up shop, a Monday ideation breaking up our worries? Are they immigrant angels, an artist's installation made of beaks and tiny beating hearts?
I applaud this news, this naked wonder on Next Door. Ans at my own bronze feeder two wrens so in love they have no time to be the subject of a post, just a duo, a couple, and a remembered winter quote.