By LindaAnn LoSchiavo
She’s old, my neighbor, planting daffodils
And other bulbs, these plump brown hopes asleep
For now, when she addresses me, that voice
Deep, curved like a construction hook, as if
She’s building with that voice things both of us
Will need. A kaffir lily, bare root still,
Is offered for inspection, years away
From blooming orange trumpets, syllables
Blown bright. There’s so little light left now.
Inside I watch her bordering the beds,
Determined, making order to impose
Her colors — to oppose a nothingness.
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Native New Yorker and Elgin Award winner LindaAnn LoSchiavo (she/her), a four time nominee for The Pushcart Prize, was also nominated for Best of the Net, Balcones Poetry Prize, an Ippy, a Firecracker Award, the Rhysling Award, and Dwarf Stars. She is a member of the British Fantasy Society, HWA, SFPA, and The Dramatists Guild.