Jackie Bartley

Three weeks without sun,
and on the table, as if
open and close had been
a single thought, a blood red
carnation keens on its stalk
toward the broken, anemic light
of the kitchen window.
Miniature refractive bubbles
pearl the stem's lower half
immersed in water,
the flawless yearning of matter
to make more matter,
though buds on either side
of the flower will not open
but remain poised as if ready to kiss
the friable edges of petals
like the icy twins of borrowed
light that sometimes blossom
on either side of the sun.

Jackie Bartley lives on the eastern shore of Lake Michigan where she teaches writing and creates poetry.