Sally Sandler

Yours is not a clear or classic beauty.
Nothing like the leaves of liquidambar,
the flowers of the purple jacaranda,
or stature of the regal redwood tree.
...

The day I knew I'd fallen out of love,
immune to fascination of your spell,
I wasn't rocking with the wind above,
intoxicated drinking in the smell
...

That you could whisper through unseen webs
and care for the earth with a mother's love—
I didn't know, I just didn't know.
...

I long to hear the ancient wind that sighs
throughout the tops of old forest trees
and fills the primal canopy of leaves
with melancholy echoes—hollow, high.
...

The moon invites herself into my room
and stirs me from a deep and rumpled sleep—
a mythic mistress climbing from her tomb,
or silver siren rising from the deep.
...

Like spirits, they will dart across our path
in drifts, and zig-zag past our cheeks and hands
just out of reach, and whirling toward a land
far north of us, by predetermined math.
...

The grass won't grow where you were laid to rest,
though years have passed since you were buried there.
Other's graves are green, while yours is bare.
I feel this with a new ache in my chest.
...

Perhaps this grief was not meant to be shared—
not meant to be examined, or assuaged,
or black and white, like print upon a page …
not even by the ones who truly care.
...

Place no limits on this grief of mine—
don't try to cheer me out of feeling sorrow.
I need to wear it for a longer time
and won't be ready to let go tomorrow.
...

Maybe right now I won't put away
her little red collar, her favorite bed—
just in case she comes back one day,
in case I can smell the top of her head
...

If only I'd asked you what was your favorite
star, or flower, river or tree,
poem, or hymn, or memory,
then I'd have riches to count in the spring …
...

In honor of the moment you were gone
the river stopped running for a second—
the surging water stopped, and had to wait
to course through the channel toward its fate—
...

Age comes upon the stone
dressed as lichen, paper thin,
the delicate rosettes slowly
etching into marble skin.
...

My poems are a map to the soul—
a twisting road to feelings undiscovered.
With each word I write, each truth uncovered,
I stumble a bit closer to the whole.
...

The music of our friendship,
a symphony, I think,
of women growing older,
our hearts played in sync.
...

Somewhere between
first grade
and old age
my youth peeled away
...

Of all the hues of summer,
I remember you as pale
yellow, with little shimmer,
your name unpleasant smell.
...

"The world breaks everyone, and afterward
many are strong at the broken places."
Ernest Hemingway, "A Farewell to Arms"
...

One path emerged, in fall—midday,
leading left from foot-worn trails.
It bore a warning —walk one way—
granting time to turn away,
...

I'll paint the sky an ultra-marine
blue wash for this scene,
but strong enough to complement
the ruby husk of pomegranate.
...