Poetry by Emily Patterson

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​When My Daughter Considers the Magnolia
 
I wasn’t ready to tell you about
loss, but the magnolia tree
 
in the alley bloomed early,
then died in a late frost.
 
Its once plush petals
silent as dead leaves.
 
I wasn’t ready to explain
how these things can seem
 
personal, how they hold
the prick of betrayal.
 
But you don’t call them
beautiful or otherwise.
 
Each morning you awaken
to the world, all of it
 
worthy of your wonder.





Anna Maria Island
 
When you still spoke your own language,
we took you to meet the ocean.
 
The view was one swirl of cool blue,
waves and sky telling the same story.
 
You pushed your toes through creamy sand,
conversed with yourself while I listened.
 
Were you telling the world all you knew?
Were you remembering what it no longer could?
 
Maybe I knew these sounds, once: your
water music a language I lost as I grew.
 
I picked up my book again.

Your story was for you.

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Emily Patterson is a curriculum designer, poet, and mother in Columbus, Ohio. She holds a B.A. in English from Ohio Wesleyan University, where she was awarded the Marie Drennan Prize for Poetry. She received her MA in Education from Ohio State University. Emily's work has been published or is forthcoming in Mothers Always Write; Thimble Literary Magazine; Quillkeepers Press; Better Than Starbucks; and elsewhere.

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