Live Encounters Poetry & Writing February 2026.
Anticipatory Grief, poems by Kim Ports Parsons.
Anticipatory Grief
Yellow shaft under flicker’s wing
in December, echo of sunlight
on snow in years past.
Peepers in January.
Snowdrops drooping
and fading in February heat.
No need for a jacket in March,
no oriole flashing its return
in the cherry tree.
Hazy embers of pollen
dance with wildfire smoke.
Sudden gunshots in the woods.
No grand swirl of moths
in June’s high beams;
the missing flare of a bob white’s call.
Stand in the hover and hum
of declining bees.
Walk the brittle drought grass.
Mark each day’s burning
like an urgent flash of warning
from a pockmarked lighthouse.
All-but-lost
Some clear winter morning,
when the impossible aroma of hope
wakens your senses, pause a moment.
In other fields, dusty hands harvest
the ripened grain while fancy bombs
steer themselves toward nearby towns.
On rubbled streets across mysterious
borders, posters of missing children
rattle in a gray and bitter wind.
How can there be anything
but bafflement at this
wilderness we wander?
The moon sets itself gently down
into the crooked clay bowl
of the mountain’s rocky arms,
and a kinship for all
who have gone before
momentarily fills your chest.
Then a keening grows in your throat,
presses its swelling note
against the next breath.
Peace is an all-but-lost seed
in need of fertile ground and rain, or
a fragile heirloom wrapped in yellowed paper.
Muster what you can. Brace against
that long-forgotten door, stubborn
with lack of use and rust, and push—
Outside These Meagre Lines
Planting seeds this morning,
purple-podded, asparagus beans,
every few inches, along the fence,
in bright sun and rich soil,
so there’s plenty of room
for vines to stretch,
for green leaves to unfurl,
for orchid-like flowers to open,
for long pods to emerge and grow,
such luscious abundance to come,
a sight for weary eyes.
Outside these meagre lines,
down the gravel road,
across miles of highway,
a plane ride over continents,
shackled, trafficked,
trucked through security gates,
crowded on cold concrete,
nearly naked men, no room
to stretch, no fresh air, no sun,
despair taking root,
blank and staring eyes.
© Kim Ports Parsons
Kim Ports Parsons grew up near Baltimore, earned degrees, and worked as an educator and librarian for thirty years. Now she lives next door to Shenandoah National Park, writes, gardens, walks, and volunteers for Cultivating Voices LIVE Poetry. Her poems have been published in such journals as Vox Populi and Poetry Ireland Review, anthologies such as “Unsinkable: Poetry Inspired by the Titanic” (forthcoming from Salmon Poetry), and nominated for a Pushcart. Her first collection, The Mayapple Forest (Terrapin Books 2022), was a finalist for the North American Book Award, sponsored by the Poetry Society of Virginia. Visit her at www.KimPortsParsons.com.