Poems by Sharon Tracey
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Autumnal Equinox, Twenty-Twenty
by Sharon Tracey
From Canary Fall 2021
Sharon lives at the edge of field and conservation land in the Connecticut River watershed in Western Massachusetts. The Connecticut is the region’s longest river, flowing through five states, from the Canadian border to Long Island Sound.
The sun slipped under houses,
one moment light, then a
finger’s small poke on the
horizon to start again the
dark.
Animals understood except for
us who stayed inside,
somehow far less equipped.
We brace ourselves— for
days of shorter straws, a maw
that won’t be sated until the
last drop is squeezed and
doled out.
Which should be no surprise
but we forget. This is the
world.
Gather up the children.
Be alert past twilight.
See that the deer have bedded down. This
is the world.
A half-cup of light, half-cup of dark.
© Sharon Tracey
Autumnal Equinox, Twenty-Twenty
by Sharon Tracey
From Canary Fall 2022
The sun slipped under houses, one moment light, then a finger’s small poke on the
horizon to start again the dark.
Animals understood except for us who stayed inside, somehow far less equipped.
We brace ourselves— for days of shorter straws, a maw that won’t be sated until
the last drop is squeezed and doled out.
Which should be no surprise but we forget. This is the world.
Gather up the children.
Be alert past twilight.
See that the deer have bedded down. This is the world.
A half-cup of light, half-cup of dark.
© Sharon Tracey
Me and Prairie Dropseed
—As for man, his days are as grass Psalm 103:15
by Sharon Tracey
From Canary Fall 2021
I have fallen for the ones spilling
forth in fountains
of stems and flowered panicles, June’s
green now October’s copper
and I’m lying here with them at
eye-level—looking through—
bronze to sky blue— and
close-up,
the only way to see everything,
quivering and falling
as the chickadees in black caps come
to snack and keep good company.
I do believe in beginnings
and endings, and yet
I can never accept November
as the last ones
are eaten or buried and the
world keeps churning
cruelty and beauty in equal measure,
and we keep hoping for
more of the latter, even the
smallest seed.
© Sharon Tracey
Me and Prairie Dropseed
—As for man, his days are as grass
Psalm 103:15
by Sharon Tracey
From Canary Fall 2022
I have fallen for the ones spilling forth in fountains
of stems and flowered panicles, June’s green now October’s copper
and I’m lying here with them at eye-level—looking through—
bronze to sky blue— and close-up,
the only way to see everything, quivering and falling
as the chickadees in black caps come to snack and keep good company.
I do believe in beginnings and endings, and yet
I can never accept November
as the last ones
are eaten or buried and the world keeps churning
cruelty and beauty in equal measure,
and we keep hoping for
more of the latter, even the smallest seed.
© Sharon Tracey
Waiting in Line to be Added to the Endangered Species List
by Sharon Tracey
From Canary Spring 2018
If it is true that the relaxed pace of living
of a tree puts it in jeopardy, then what?
If you are used to living for centuries
I suppose you may run out of time.
No cooler climes coming. So many
standing in line. Some have filed
papers, submitted facts and figures.
There may be cutting in.
Who knows how long the Joshua trees
will wait? Members of the Yucca tribe,
the old ones remember being born
on the high desert, on a cool morning
in spring after a burst of rain as the poppies
bloomed & spread their buttered faces.
The prophets raise their tired arms to pray.
The people sleep, the fires burn.
© Sharon Tracey