By Melodie Bolt

I’ve listened to your garden.
Garlic, deep in mahogany soil.
Miniature cabbage folded like newborn skin
A library of herbs.
I’ve leaned into your Bowie.
So many frequencies of art.
Still no word from Mars.
How silly to name this quiet space between us friendship.
The tornado siren sounds every first Saturday,
a warning for what may come.
Wild wind thrashing garden gnomes and wheelbarrow.
But we always meet again on your golden sun-kissed porch,
righting planters and finding joy at unbroken stems.

About the Author

Melodie Bolt’s poetry has appeared in venues such as Prairie Schooner, Verse Wisconsin, Qua, and Making Waves. She earned an MFA in Writing from Pacific University. Her poetry has been nominated for a Dwarf Star award. She currently resides in Flint, Michigan with her partner, children, three dogs, and a kitty named Nyx.