October is harvest,
full—both fruit and moon.

How can it be I feel the smooth-stoned 
architecture of your absence so jaggedly?

Ah, yes, September 
broke in two, gave half the sun to you. 


© Jennifer Wagner

dVerse OLN #417

tonight, even as the sky 
has pocketed all our stars,
you give me your hands
like fresh shoots
fragrant with apple

tonight, when the horse-bitten moon 
is smudged with cloud,
i give you mine, lilac-new, dew-soft,
our eyes lantern-lit 
for this black, burning season


© jennifer wagner

dVerse Quadrille #257

It’s the way moon and cloud
speak to each other, sing 
each other’s songs.

The way they hold each other
with a light touch, 
a soft covering.

That was us, once.
But, it’s a start, the way
we’ve found the way

back to each other.
The way we’ve chosen 
to be on each other’s side again.

And the sky has gone silent, 
the lovers, moon and cloud, 
creating just the right hush,

as if waiting for us to see the way,
to move forward together into the glow,
warm enough to touch.



© Jennifer Wagner

dVerse Poetics

even walking away,
it’s music

the sound of boots on gravel
has been a favorite of mine

since i was only 
a handful of years

and though i am many more, 
i love it now, still

how can the harsh crunch of leaving
contain such bliss—

it’s like this: the way spring pink folds and fades,
the way summer’s gold burns to ash,

this leg of the journey, autumn 
festooned in maroon and gray,

pumpkin and sage,
is ablaze with offering—

older, wiser, richer-hued
from what’s been learned, left behind

and these ashes, snowy, ever-increasing,
more suitable for my next-season years


© jennifer wagner

dVerse: the journey itself

When the world crashed in
we were already running—
that’s how these things always are.

The Thing 
that stopped us
was so large in scope
it threatened to consume 
the entire landscape.

Monstrous.  
Heavy.  
Impassable.  
Impossible.

Our world screamed fire,
we blinked back ash.
Our throats raged ragged 
from swallowing hollowing grief.

But the slowing, the stopping,
and then the simply keep-on-going
kept us grounded.

The Thing,
still there, 
loomed large, bleak, stark.

But we learned.  We leaned
into.  Adjusted our view.

And we saw we were not alone—
saw how many lights
shone for us in our pharaonic dark.


© Jennifer Wagner

This poem was inspired by Mark Crutchfield’s picture prompt.

Two years ago in September, a close loved one of mine began treatment for a serious health issue.  It has been an up-and-down journey which has been helped immensely by others who have encouraged us by sharing their own stories with us, have supported us in numerous ways, not the least of which has been prayer and a simple checking in to ask how we are doing, not out of their own curiosity, but from their own care and desire to help.  I would not have been able to do these last two years without them.  If you or a loved one is facing consuming health obstacles, know you are not alone.  I’m lighting a candle for you.🌹

“Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights…” James 1:17a

summer is protesting
its finish

bright rust
falling

cupped into palms
like wept tears

another month
to go, still,

and yet it feels
we’ve already

fallen
by sharp degrees

the coat of many colors
hanging empty

across the room
where we grieve another bloom


© jennifer wagner


dVerse q (a 44-word poem) 
Poetics (the art of Egon Schiele, Field of Flowers, in the public domain)

R.I.P. legend Dolly Parton (1946-2026).  You made the world a brighter place.  We will always love you.

We were November ravens
the first time we scraped in
to Rockaway Beach,

wind and rain 
pounding the sea-worn 
cabin eaves relentlessly,
the ocean’s crash
just outside the door,

harsh and stunning.
Us, dressed in dark velvet,
unzipped by the moon.

We woke ravenous
next morning, nothing 
but pretzel sticks and hot sauce 
to peck at on the counter, starving

for coffee strong enough to rouse
the seaside drunks, but gloating 
in sleek-feathered grins

of fierce-piercing beauty,
alive and hungry,
both one and the same.


© Jennifer Wagner

dVerse 
WGO

Photo © Jennifer Wagner

you tuck me closer
as if the softest thing
we’re carrying on this onyx river 
is the bright, full belly of the moon

oh, how we’ve learned swan-speak,
soft-shouldered, saudade
in the shattering light
of fallen stars,

learned leaning into
when currents carry away, balancing, 
buoying, the stone of grief and loss
between us, 

the heavy, dark,
of light, of empty, womb


© 2026 jennifer wagner



This painting by lua inspired this ekphrastic reflection on grief which many parents experience due to miscarriage.  My husband and I have four beautiful sons now, but we’ve experienced that pain and loss twice.  lua is a talented painter, poet, musician, and singer.  I recommend you check out her work.  Image above used with permission.

Even after the bandages
are off, my post-surgery hand
still feels like I am waving
a Mickey Mouse glove
as I walk the block
in Phoenix heat.

But I won’t duck into 
the cool A/C yet—
not while I’m watching
the old black-and-white
neighborhood street cat
chase off a coyote
five times his size,
then saunter back, leap up,
and stretch himself long
across my neighbor’s truck roof.

Wile E. returns, crouched
behind a pile of Apache-gold rocks, waiting.

I love this desert.
People keep trying to
put a fork in its belly, 
proclaiming we’re cooked.

Oh no.  
Tomorrow there may be
blood in the street,
but it won’t belong 
to us desert-rat
cool cats.


© 2026 Jennifer Wagner