The Gist of Letters and Geography

An Island off the Georgia coast, 1780

A heron shrugs in the wind,

her wings a fringed shawl

reminding me it's cold.

I need one of my own.

The candle is almost done,

shriveled beneath its greater flame

like the darkness

beneath dawn widening

over this field -- and beyond the marsh,

the sea moves north

where my husband's encamped.

He's waiting for the canons to come

but says their supplies are low. A sudden lack

of gun powder. They're casting spears

from pikes and spare metal.

Everything is threadbare.

And here on the island, I tell him

Spanish moss is thinning

on the cypress. Ghostly threads

out of use, lacking a needle

or purpose. So much like the ones

I found on my hem, fibers of linen

or wool. The old Gullah woman

swears they have meaning, put there

by spirits to show something

needs to be stitched.

The wind stills and the bird

plunges her beak

into shallow water, grabs nothing

but a string of seaweed

When it dries, it will turn

reddish brown. The color of a bloodstain,

the tint of his hair (last falling)

against my hand in the sun.

About the author

Wendy Howe is an English teacher and free lance writer who lives in Southern California. Her poetry reflects her interest in myth, diverse landscapes, and ancient cultures. Over the years, she has been published in an assortment of journals both on-line and in print. Among them: The Copperfield Review, Silver Blade Magazine, The Poetry Salzburg Review, Eye To The Telescope and The Orchards Journal. Her most recent work will be forthcoming in Carmina Magazine and Polu Texni later this year.