The Bluebird Word

An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

Tag: walk

Photo by Shaojie on Unsplash

Walking with a Leaf in Winter

1 February 2025 /

Poetry by Christine Andersen

I don’t know where it came from
since the tree limbs around me were bare—

the leaf was slight, brown,
jagged at the edges

like a scrap torn from
a paper bag,

but there it was beside me
drifting on a cold, slow,

February wind,
keeping pace

as if we were connected
by a slender thread,

an odd companion,
wafting,

remarkable as a sunset,
easy, debonair

falling away with a wink
too elegant for words.

Christine Andersen is a retired dyslexia specialist who hikes daily in the Connecticut woods with her five dogs, pen and pad in pocket. Publications include the Comstock, The Awakenings, New Plains and Gyroscope Reviews, Slab, and Glimpse, among others. She won the 2024 American Writers Review Poetry Contest.

Photo by Ethan Hu on Unsplash

January Walk

6 January 2025 /

Poetry by Laura Hannett

Trudging in my brilliant scarf
my coat, my hat, my gloves
I see that
as much as any other creature
I am an adornment to the world
The cardinal
so lavishly and recklessly red
in the black-and-white tracery of snowy branches
is not more bracing to the eye

Shaking not a little
from the pitiless wind
I fear that
as much as any other creature
I am a trifle to the world
The rabbit
huddled with ruffled fur
beneath the spirea’s bones
is not more exposed to the cold

Returning home
to warmth that bathes my icy face
I own that
I am some fortune’s darling
The cats
so thoroughly and sensuously lost in sleep
on this freezing afternoon
are not more spoiled than me

Laura Hannett lives in Central New York with her marvelous family. She is a graduate of Hamilton College and the College of William and Mary.

selective focus photography of red waterlily flower in bloom
Photo by Couleur on Pexels.com

We Went Walking

6 May 2022 /

Poetry by Heather Sager

I remember that June
when we went walking.

The day stayed up late.
The orange orb floated high in the sky.

And you, dear, were walking
by my side.

You told me you’d
keep me company.
You knew I walked often
alone.

And the warm warm sky glowed
though it was getting late,

and we saw the busy summer street,
the lush summer trees.
We went around the pond
three times, talking.

Sunrays illumined your red shirt
and your wide eyes.

And the sun carried us,
together, into the nighttime.

Heather Sager lives in Illinois where she writes poetry and fiction. Her most recent work appears in The Orchards, Fahmidan Journal, Magma, Red Eft, Version (9), The Bosphorus Review of Books, Shabd Aaweg Review, The Fabulist, Willows Wept, and more.

© 2025 The Bluebird Word

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑