Prima Vera

Last night after dinner
the moon, crescent as a sleepy eye,
attempted to wink away the last of winter
eager to look upon spring heavens.

This morning in the garden
the soil, acidic and aching,
longs to birth its green shoot babies
to sun themselves, stop the shivering.

This afternoon, the river
icebound and idle,
will stretch away the stiffness,
swell, breathe and bend again
beneath a returning sun.



Behind the Words

I watch her across the table
with neat hair and nails
she shuffles her papers
and serves us her poetry-
we read, and gasp
silent to ourselves-
she writes of death.

We are not surprised
a poet would visit this topic,
but her? So ordinary,
vanilla, and clean-
we shift stiffly
in hard chairs, discuss
the dynamics of her piece,
discover she thinks of death often

and it assaults me:
no one stops
thinking of the ugly things-
they float in our heads
haunt our days, and live
in our dreams-

yet everyone's mouths
profess only
the beautifully mundane: weather,
groceries, traffic.



Riverlife

He bends his neck around to see
(past a tangerine-rusted truck)
the bridge opening-
like hands finished with prayer.

The sun glares,
he stares, glossy eyed
at a Coast Guard boat that glides
on amber colored water and slides
miniature waves to meet
fishermen's hooks.

Ropes on flagpoles clank
a silver, ting-tang sound:
they signal the arrival of wind
in one moment,
and the departure
of an old, dry life
in the next.

Although born in southern New Jersey, Andrea Jazwiecki spent the majority of her childhood in east coast states, with a stint in Texas. Now back in NJ, she and her husband work in real estate together. Andrea's poetry can be found in Eclectica Magazine, The Philadelphia Inquirer, and The Edison Literary Review. She enjoys travel, wine, fixing up her old house, collecting hippos, nude yoga, and photography.