Maggie Sawkins Poems

The fir cone I picked from a Corsican forest
carried across an ocean
nestled between balls of socks,
has fallen from the grate and rests
...

I could watch them for hours
Esmeralda and Zola
strolling up and down
on legs as long as stilted circus clowns.
...

She got used to the birds
flying around the house

except for the days
...

I have come to translate the silence.
I've bought paper and pencils
and a pair of small ears.
...

Leaf,
you no longer know
what it means
...