The Works of Laura Grace Weldon

The author lives on a small farm (www.bitofearthfarm.com) with her family. Her poems have recently appeared in Atlantic Review, Christian Science Monitor, Mannequin Envy, Flashquake and Dirty Napkin.  Her book Free Range Learning is due out from Hohm Press in June 2010. Visit her at www.lauragraceweldon.com.


All Poems © Laura Grace Weldon

Spring Equinox


Road gray snow piled

along the parking lot

melts in rivulets

streaming between cars and carts

with the same eagerness I smell in the warming air.


Inside, displays are piled high

with bags of sterilized soil, compounds

in bright spray bottles, plants overflowing

small plastic pots.


I think of wise ones teaching

that answers await us.

Sorrel, plantain, dandelion

grow at our feet. Instead we tend a weed

serving nobody. We clear wild places

where graceful pollinators fed and

sleeping creatures dreamed. We confine what grows,

wondering why our children no longer pretend.


Sun-lit windows cast light across faces in checkout lines 1 to 9.

A gray-haired man hoists a sack of peat moss to his shoulder,

muscles cording his skin. A baby sleeps in a cart laden

with orange and purple petunias, bought too soon to plant.

Tags flutter ceremoniously over the head of a woman

carrying a shovel out the door.


The impulse to welcome spring

lies deep as memory. My pulse catches with unexpected love

for each person here. Now in the marketplace and later,

our hands tucking tender seedlings into blessed ground,

I see the many ways we are called to worship.



Why We Walk The Dogs


Yawning, you say you’re too tired

yet we can’t refuse

brown-eyed pleading at the door.


Away from these walls we more easily silence

sorrow, hardship, loss

by looking, only looking.


Cows in the lower pasture raise their heads as we pass.

A Baltimore oriole alights on a hickory fencepost

twined with yellow flowers. The sun stretches

generous arms of light cloud to cloud.


The old dog walks alongside,

as the puppy bounds through ditches

up hillsides, joyously muddy

collecting scents for his dreams.


When grief or fear catches in my throat

I remember to look at the sky

letting higher possibilities

hover over our steps.


Then, through evening brightness

dozens of blue and green dragonflies

swoop around us in some unknown ritual.

We wonder which of nature’s perfect gestures---

migration, mating, defense---this may be.

Standing in the middle of our complicated lives,

we feel a lift of hope requiring no effort

and turn toward home, wide awake.