Deep Spring
By Hallie Fogarty
Irises undress themselves to fresh summer weather,
pre-dandelions and post-dandelions sit undisturbed
in a bed of fresh-cut-grass smell, brightness popping out
from green, showing off. Showing up.
The little purple weeds peek up from behind, avoid tramplation by luck or centimeters or hesitation.
I don’t know a wasp from a bumblebee,
will flinch no matter the buzzing, still itch hours
after I feel a bug climb on me. But I like nature in theory:
cool breezes lifting arm hair by the singular,
goosebumps rising, birds cooing quietly to harmonize
with the voice of someone I love, cloud watching, god
I love cloud watching even more than I love stars, love
to find something new where it wasn’t before. Love to
make sense of something I haven’t yet tried to understand,
let the wind flip the pages of my book before I’m ready to turn.
END
Author Bio: Hallie Fogarty is a poet, teacher, and artist from Kentucky. She received her MFA in poetry from Miami University, where she was awarded the 2024 Jordan-Goodman Graduate Award for Poetry. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Poetry South, Hoxie Gorge Review, and elsewhere. Find her online: www.halliefogarty.com