Renee Yaseen
While the Lavender Grows
The alarms are everywhere. Someone has stolen an egg
From the nest of the Killdeer, 25. While his wife lay sleeping. As her lavender sprung up,
fresh and mottled in its delicate spray.
The smoke rises eastward
I see I’ve disturbed the ants, the calm beetles moseying leftward and rightward on the pavement.
The family of geese waiting in earnest expectation
for me, I hope they all do not hear softened static
underneath the wail of a dove, alone. How alike dove and alone look in
my hand. My hand. A dome of rain will soon shatter like coconut. Milk spills. I know the grass drinks
when it can.
About the writer:
Renee Yaseen is a junior at the University of Notre Dame studying International Economics and Arabic. Her poetry is forthcoming in Bluing the Blade (Dec 2020) and appears in Overachiever Magazine (2020).
Image: Lavender Meadow by Gabor Peterdi (1915-2001). Oil on canvas. 46 x 60 inches. 1986. By free license.
