Here’s the morning again saying, look, the sun is in the trees,
earth’s hair tangled birded—
the garden a hive wound with color, dressed with names:
dill, cabbage, mustard, phlox, echeveria, aeonium—
evergreen, flowering once. White moths flag lavender, finches bury
in a berry tree, their beaks tear sapling branches,
each bite plucked, leaves shower—even the birds can’t
get the world in their mouth without trouble.
Jen Stewart Fueston is the author of Madonna, Complex (Cascade Books 2020), Latch (River Glass Books 2019) and Visitations (Finishing Line Press 2015). Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in AGNI, Western Humanities Review, Thrush, Beloit Poetry Journal and elsewhere. A native of Colorado, she has taught writing at the University of Colorado, Boulder, as well as internationally in Hungary, Turkey and Lithuania.
Twitter: @jenniferfueston
Instagram: @jenstewartfueston
