Janette Schafer – Six Poems

Let your roads have dirt

after a photograph by Greg Clary

Let yourself be drawn
to golden shafts of sunlight—
threshold to a forest
that knows something,
might share it with you.

The mist whispers
where the road vanishes—

Let me take you away
from this. I have so many
things to show you.
Hurry, lover.

Hurry.

Sunflower: a love story

after a photograph by Greg Clary

A row of sunflowers once grew
near a patch of firewitch.

One such witch twirled her
magenta head at a tow-headed
stalk as he began to grow.

Every day they chatted
beneath the sun or rain
next to the bright blue barn.

The bees and hummingbirds
drank in the nectar of their
affection. When the breeze

caught her petals just-so,
she gave her spin. He’d go weak
in the knees, so he stayed small,

the short stalk in the middle,
in fragrant conversation.

Crow in July

6:08 AM on a Monday morning,
I bring Chuck, my city crow friend,
seven blueberries, cold from
the refrigerator. I line them up on
the orange brown brick, little round
sentinels standing at attention.

I don’t see Chuck every morning.
When he comes, it’s between 6 to 7 AM,
and I can tell it’s him by the way
he cocks his head. I wonder
at his name in Crow-Speak,

how he is known amongst his kind.
I sit in the brown wicker chair
writing in my notebook, hear
the sharp rowing of his landing.
He greets me with a red button,

left on the brick beside his breakfast—
gives a gentle throaty chuckle—
eats four of seven blueberries—

flies away.

Hymn to a buck

A friend of mine who hunts once told me
he dreams of deer come August. I think
of a lame buck who once took refuge in my yard.

I think of a buck who once took refuge in my yard.
It is early August and the worst of the heat
is behind me. Autumn is its own kind of sanctuary.

For me, September is its own kind of sanctuary.
I count my life in autumns, in turning of leaves,
when crispness in the air greets me.

The crispness in the air greets my skin, a lover
remembered, who comes behind me, whispers,
Hey, old friend. I still think of us.

Hey, old friend, I still think of us. I recall the lame buck
who slept near the oak, gone now for three summers.
I wonder if my friend who hunts has begun to dream.

That which the earth will swallow

after a photograph by Keith Hileman

The post—weathered to ruin,
does little against the raging meadow.
One shiny gleam of wire remains.
So many old defenses become
useless, and those who placed them
can’t remember why.

Can you recall what this fence
was meant to hold? Every boundary
fails or fades, becomes part
of the landscape.

My first letter

was to my auntie
when she went to college.

I sat at her desk
in my grandparents’ house,
wept at her absence,
first stabbing ache
of longing—

writing “I miss you”
over and over like
litany, a mantra—

at 5 years old,
having no other words
for the heavy in my chest,

but knowing in
the writing down,

there was peace.

Janette Schafer is a poet, photographer, playwright, and realtor living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She holds an MFA in Poetry from Chatham University and has authored three poetry collections and served as chief editor of two anthologies. Her writing and photographs have appeared or are forthcoming in The Missouri Review, SWWIM, ONE ART, Vox Populi, and Split Rock Review. A winner of the Academy of American Poets Prize, she has also been recognized in the Pittsburgh Original Short Play Series and the Pittsburgh Fringe Festival.