October 2023
Bio Note: I am a dreamer, a seeker. a widow, a psychotherapist in private practice and a poetry mentor who was awarded The Contemporary American Poetry Prize by Chicago Poetry. I have written six collections of poetry including Through My Window: Poetry of a Psychotherapist and edited two poetry anthologies, Poems from 84th Street and Mentor's Bouquet. I have the pleasure of leading workshops for The International Women's Writing Guild and founded the Manhattan Writing Workshop which I continue to lead. Stellasue Lee, Editor Emerita of Rattle, was my poetry mentor and is my friend. I thank her for her support of me and my poetry.
At the Threshold
After reading Mary Oliver's Praying
At the threshold,
I look out into a garden,
leave the dishes in the sink,
abandon sheets soaking in bleach,
forget counseling, forget my husband.
Remember I am a widow now.
I enter the garden.
Daffodils, yellow as sunrise-
Iris, bruise purple-
I inhale lilacs, feel a soft breeze on my cheek,
pick up a few stones for my journey.
I take one iris and three daffodils with me
into the yellow light of a new life.
Ask Me
Ask me if I speak for the peony.
and will tell you, yes.
I speak for green veined
leaves, the fuchsia flower that burns
like the heart of a ballet dancer.
I speak for fecund heaviness, and peony's love
and fear of lightning. I speak for all
whose heads are full of moon jelly.
A current moves swiftly,
not like the snail,
To blossom is a burden.
Yes, I speak for the peony
loved in her youth for her beauty,
cut back as she crinkles and sags.
But, next year a fuchsia fist
will plunge through the soil.
Peony will begin again
if she is allowed water and sun.
I speak for our waning water,
the moon, our sister,
the sun, mother of us all.
Yes, I speak for the peony.
I Still Hear Him
Open the love window, Rumi says,
and close the language door.
Today I look through my window,
see a cardinal feed seed to his mate
next to a mandevilla vine that raises pink trumpets,
wraps itself around my porch railing,
climbs the column, holds her flowers to the sun.
Embraces, hangs on for life.
I opened the love window over fifty years ago.
Now he is gone.
His ashes are in a blue urn next to me,
I could turn my head and look at him,
but I look to the feeder,
the maple leaves full of hands,
the vine that holds fast,
blushes with joy.
I was her once, but now I no longer cling.
I closed the love window
and opened the door to language.
I miss his hands, his deep voice,
the way he touched my back in crowds,
his laughter and the way he would
sing to birds, and they would answer.
I still hear him sing
through the closed love window.
©2023 Linda Leedy Schneider
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to say what it is about the poem you like. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL