Two poems by Nora rawn

The Wood Stove

We light the fire straight on arriving,

end result of long hours driving, baby

passed from knee to knee and thriving:

happiness could be this simple, maybe,

this one last hibernation before spring.

The snow stays still, the bears sleep on,

the birds are not yet upon the wing.

The embers keep good company, soon gone.

Can there be poetry in this, the chili

on the stove, skaters flying round the bends,

fireplace drawing out the wintry chill?

Now is when the season slows, the sun attends,

the fire burns down to cinders in the night.

No fuel is everlasting; all takes flight.

The Allotment Visit

Should you think paradise a mere fool’s dream,

one simple fix: have a trusted friend bring

you down Farnaby Road, steps all agleam,

hurried on by the light winds of spring,

propelled through the gate along the bracken path,

over breaking down leaves, unassuming

tunnel along the school, the muddy swath’s

effluvium rising, nothing blooming

but the unpromised future, another year

progressing down its own murky tunnel,

lying in wait past the green brightness, clear

strong light of a gray day, time as funnel,

you and her father behind, friends of yore

marveling as his only child strives before

Nora Rawn works in publishing subrights and lives in Brooklyn. She has pieces published or forthcoming in Dodo Eraser, Dreck Lit, Be About It Press, Burning House, Electric Pink, Burial Magazine, Some Words, and Michigan City Review of Books, among others.