by | Jun 12, 2019 | Poetry

When you say
you are nearly home,
I look out at snow
on the blossoms,
strong sun ahead
of the cold. You
have forged me well,
assigned my worries,
taught me to care
for plans as they
dissolve like paper.

I carry your nerves,
those lengthy catalogues,
like sparks in my pocket,
flashes I scatter
to scar the ground.

MOTHER by Sandra Marchetti

Photo used under CC.

About The Author


Sandra Marchetti is the author of Confluence, a full-length collection of poetry from Sundress Publications (2015). She is also the author of four chapbooks of poetry and lyric essays, including Sight Lines (Speaking of Marvels Press, 2016), Heart Radicals (ELJ Editions, 2016), A Detail in the Landscape (Eating Dog Press, 2014), and The Canopy (MWC Press, 2012). Sandra’s poetry appears widely in Poet Lore, Blackbird, Subtropics, Ecotone, Southwest Review, and elsewhere. Her essays can be found at The Rumpus, Words Without Borders, Mid-American Review, Barrelhouse, and other venues. Sandy earned an MFA in Creative Writing—Poetry from George Mason University and lives in the Chicagoland area.