A Poem by Pamela Gross

In the Garden                                                                              

        A sudden wedge-
shaped shadow
                         swoops
from the hemlock’s

arms at garden’s
                             edge.

Wings outstretched,
                                 it stoops
 to enfold its prey,
 just feet before
 me on the path’s
                   wickerwork
of brick.

           Then --
fast as its fierce
approach -- it
                         swings
away. Not a
whisper of wingbeat
in this spring
dusk.

                       The maned
oriental maple, fine-
                                   pruned,
has just this week begun
                                         to open
its burgundy, die-cut hands.

Epimedium’s rubra fringe
bibs a hexagonal
                             block
of basalt planted
to cup and pool
                           rain.

I bend toward
a river of oxalis
to pluck
a single bouquet
               of shattered breast coverts
that nests
among these good-luck
leaves.



She lives and works in Seattle, Washington. Her first poetry collection, BIRDS OF THE NIGHT SKY/STARS OF THE FIELD, was published by the University of Washington press. A new collection, LIKE FIREWEED LEAPING, is in progress.