Grove

I walk through the forest where
He is still waiting, there
In the deep woods, a statue overgrown
With moss. I can still kneel
And brush my fingers across
The clay cleverness
Of an aged face
Weathered by all seasons -- Love,
The sacred grove remains.

Lift

She was wolf girl in the lift,
Powerful and free.
Nothing but her will, her body,
The weight, lifting,

Stress on muscles, straining--
Teeth grit through the midst of it,
Freeing

All the pain, courageous, she
     always preferred to feel --
a freeing breath --
         -- release.

Wildflowers

I love poetry like wildflowers,
     no single standard.
Can you imagine living
     that anonymous life by the roadside?
What if that flower became a woman
     and one day walked to market
         in the heat of bustle and bees,
and saw all the human varieties,
     no single standard?


 -T. L. Shreffler