Poetry

by Ann Boaden

Mary after Annunciation

This dark morning
in the cold
stars fell
and danced on the grass.

Is this how he will come
to my darkness
(our darkness):
silent
and light
and dancing?

Winter Along the Mississippi

The river
wanders in white,
tracks from yesterday’s freeze,
lacing its gray skin
like risen veins.
I wonder
at this quietness,
while underneath
sinews of current
stroke toward
the drawing of
the sea.

Lamp

The thing is, you see, that it gives gradually.
Not a white-hot searchlight exploding the darkness,
raping the mystery, but in slow bright trails

like scuff-marks on new snow. Each gleam encases
a demand for attention: twig like a tossed-out cigar; zigzag crack
where tiny leaf curls, green as soaked grass, climb from darkness.

Thy word is a lamp unto my feet,
the psalmist said, who knew
how each step is a selving.