Norma Sheard
Born in Harlingen, New Jersey, a small rural town near Princeton, Norma Sheard began writing as a young girl. Her topics drew upon the landscape of farm and family life, as they do now. A regular contributor to the rich poetry community in and around Princeton, she now lives on Deer Isle, Maine, where she continues to write and to sing in a choir, something she has done for many years.
Her poems have been published in many journals, including New York Quarterly, Piedmont Review, The Patterson Literary Review and Nimrod, as well as in an anthology, A First Book Affair, a Centennial Celebration (Bristol Banner Books. Awards for her work include first place in a Nimrod Magazine awards issue; a grant from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts; a scholarship to “The Poet’s House” on Islandmagee, Northern Ireland, and a residency at The Millay Colony in Austerlitz, New York. In 1994 she was included in the “Poets among Us” readings at the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival in Waterloo, New Jersey. Of the three poems below, one, “Quickening” has been spoken for. It will appear in Issue No. 60 of U.S. 1 Worksheets.
Irene Willis
Poetry Editor
Quickening
Seen through the wickery twigs
of an old apple tree
Burnt Cove exits into the bay,
out islands steady on the horizon.
Under their branches, February bushes
turn red buds into sparrows, sparrowing.
Spring shadows quicken
as red fox lopes and plunges past.
If I die first, who will care for you?
Will you linger, your memories
just a flicker of birdwing?
A streak of jet scars the sky.
In another room, a woman hums.
Hot Cotton
“Smell is the mute sense, the one without words.”
Diane Ackerman, “A Natural History of the Senses”
I tip my iron to fabric, let it steam,
carry the weight over a dozen pillow cases,
top sheets, Friday’s company napkins.
The searing smell of cotton
rises from the past.
Before our Easter trip to Waltham,
to Aunt Rose and Uncle Harry’s,
my mother sprinkles clothes
that need ironing: blouses, cotton slips,
a weeks supply of crochet-edged handkerchiefs,
my dress with ruffles and swirly skirt.
She rolls them into a moistened towel
to refrigerate for several hours,
letting the damp spread evenly.
For the long journey, she wears her tailored suit,
a jewel-necked blouse,
the claw-shaped hat of light tan felt
clamped over her curls, little veil lifted,
and of course, white gloves.
It is still dark when we leave,
the twin oak trees looming black
over the front walk, car warming up
while dad loads the trunk.
I clutch my pillow and rub my eyes.
A few blocks from their Cape Cod
on Neighbors Lane, she combs her hair,
freshens her lipstick, anchors
the hat again with a pearl hatpin.
Her newly polished nails,
filed to perfect points, are bright red.
When she sees the driveway,
she pulls on her gloves.
We arrive early.
Aunt Rose flies out the front door.
She bundles me into her arms,
her afternoon dress
still warm from the iron.
Marge at Eighty
She is surprised, a luncheon
in her honor at her son’s,
a hot June day.
All the children have gathered,
her granddaughter, grandson,
a cousin, close friends.
We lounge at round tables under trees
drinking wine to her health.
A birthday cake, sweet pink icing,
a candle for every decade.
Where has the time gone?
Story after story answers.
Everyone laughs.
For awhile, even the dead join us.
There is good-natured ribbing, gag gifts.
We have put aside last week’s biopsy,
her calendar of more tests ahead.
Beyond the shade trees, beyond
sculpted flower beds and post fence
we find comfort in fields unchanged.
It is all so perfect —
cows graze as they have always grazed,
red barns wait to be filled.