Freshwater Cadence

I do not speak
the bubbling language
of fish underwater

I do not even speak
the language of the caster,
selecting lures, keeping
hooks out of low-hanging
branches

My voice is the one
that stands, wading, still,
right by the shore, watching
a school of waving shapes
float gently by.

By JD DeHart


JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His poems have appeared in Gargouille and The Other Herald, among other publications. DeHart blogs at jddehartpoetry.blogspot.com.

Late Avalanche

Spring comes early this
year, showering Earth with buds,
after a waterless then smoke-filled
season, the sense of growth

Hopefully, there is no whirlwind
stirring, not a bank of snow
waiting silently around the corner,
plotting his swift assault

But if there is a snow to come,
all these sounds can be briefly
swallowed in muffled powder,
we will bud again.

By JD DeHart


JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His poems have appeared in Gargouille and The Other Herald, among other publications. DeHart blogs at jddehartpoetry.blogspot.com.