The Bluebird Word

An Online Literary Journal for Poetry and Flash

Tag: winter season

Photo by Cristina Anne Costello on Unsplash

February Morning in Palm Springs

28 January 2025 /

Poetry by Suzy Harris

Blue sky laced with clouds, chilly breeze.
Sometimes the sun breaks through to kiss

a cheek, a shoulder, then hides again.
Sandals and sun hat emerge from hibernation.

It is all about the light here,
how it sets the lemon tree aflame,

each lemon a small sun of tart brilliance.
Each cell dulled by winter stirs,

arises to greet the day. Day is still
getting used to these strangers,

prods the multi-celled being
we call human to watch

a hummingbird hovering the base of twin
palm trees, to notice the stalk

arising from the center of an agave,
its death bloom still tightly curled.

Suzy Harris lives in Portland, Oregon. Her poems have appeared in Clackamas Literary Review, Willawaw Journal, and Wild Greens, among other journals and anthologies. Her chapbook Listening in the Dark, about hearing loss and learning to hear again with cochlear implants, was published by The Poetry Box in February 2023.

Photo by Henrik Dønnestad on Unsplash

Calling Out for Color

16 January 2025 /

Prose Poetry by Kathryn Ganfield

Through the dirty, double-paned windows, screens blackened by a box fan that perches there five months of the year, I see snow poured out blue as gas station slushees or abandoned bottles of glacial electrolytic drinks. But when I open the back door, call out hoarsely to the dog, the snow is not blue after all. Not a bit blue, not even a little. Snow is mauve by the seasoned cedar fence, the fence we always meant to stain, but now seven years have gone by, and the weather beat us to it. Snow is black from puppy paws. Snow is divots and sand traps and even a mangrove back by the barbecue grill and the shade garden where, slicked green, the hosta leaves are a fitted sheet under a snowy duvet. And finally, eyes adjusted to winter’s light, I see the snow for what it is. Not white or blue or any of these colors, but, of course, a color sent south from Canada. The color of goose down—sharp, curling and cold.

Kathryn Ganfield is a Minnesota-based nature writer and essayist. She was a Loft Literary Center Mentor Series Fellow, 2023 Paul Gruchow Essay Contest winner, and a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Her words have been published in Water~Stone Review and Creative Nonfiction, among other journals. Find her at kathrynganfield.com.

Photo by Josie Weiss on Unsplash

Two Winter Haiku

29 December 2024 /

Poetry by M.L. Lyons

Pine trees of winter
Burlap warms the cedars
Deer licks green needles.

Year end ritual
Snow geese cry fleeing winter
Beeswax candles glow

M. L. Lyons is a poet, writer, editor and co-editor of the anthology, “Raising Lilly Ledbetter: Women Poets Occupy the Workplace.” Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart and her poetry collection, “Songs from the Multiverse” is forthcoming in 2025 from Finishing Line Press.

bare trees
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Sing a Song of Midnight

31 December 2023 /

Poetry by Bonnie Demerjian

Step through the door into the new-hatched year.
There’s promise of a light ahead,
the balance tipped, the finger points toward spring
but not just yet.

For now, we’re in that spacious room of dark —
no floor, no walls, no roof above.
In amniotic space, we’ll first unfold
then wait to be unsealed.

In this hour the frost world is our home
so sink into its artful wealth.
Fluff your feathers like the roosting hen,
and settle safely in.

Outside the porcupine and deer will roam,
so wary in the light of day,
tonight in silky freedom nose your gate,
befriended by the shade.

Oh birds, the city lights scream certain death,
a warning never known and yet
somber incantation chants a highway for
your journey lit by dark.

Unlatch the door to constellations and
the fickle waltzing moon.
A shooting star may plunge and bring you promise
of a world renewed.

Curtains drawn and door against the night,
turn again to your true love.
The candle of affection brighter for the
season’s windblown gloom.

So welcome Mother Dark, she nourishes,
sustains us with her mystery.
And though our hearts quail with diminished light,
her secrets feed our journey.

Bonnie Demerjian lives in Southeast Alaska and writes from her oceanside home which inspires much of her writing. She is a birder, a gardener and a cellist. Her work has been published in The Bluebird Word, Tidal Echoes, Blue Heron Review, Pure Slush, and Alaska Women Speak, among others.

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