A Yearly Reminder at a Forgotten Pond
By Ashley Marie Johnson
A path of water lilies dance
to the surface in spring, ice
giving way to lily pads
spotted with dew and moonlight.
I’ve heard, when the pond thaws,
the hyacinths turn their yellow
petals away and sing only to themselves.
But the lilies pay no mind, caught
in misty breezes, the humming
of crickets and chickadees wrapping
them up in symphonies.
After waltzing for days,
they sink below once more—
still water wilting.
The hyacinths, bending
to the edge of the bank, watch white
petals melt away, and begin a new
sorrowful song—unheard.
Girlhood: a Collection of Tankas
By Ashley Marie Johnson
I.
Above the reef, she
once sewed nets from storm-spun hair
and dove for starfish
in the sea with its waves full
of wrath against rocky shores—
II.
her riptides not yet
stolen by the moon, sharks (with
wing-biting teeth) not
yet spilling in, feathers not
yet found in coral and bone,
III.
and the seal, that swam
beside her into the deep,
not yet casting skin
away to cling to the boat
with a boy’s wrinkled fingers—
IV.
but now, like a song,
like sirens of old, women
with wings, she cries to
the sea, begs it to stay, though
she remains in wind and sand.
Ashley Marie Johnson
Ashley Marie Johnson resides among the Wasatch Mountains of northern Utah where she often stares into space (and occasionally daydreams) in the company of her two cats. Her work has previously appeared in Apricot Press, Sublunary Review and Touchstones Literary Journal. She
is also currently working towards publishing her first poetry chapbook.
Twitter/X: @AJMariePoetry
Photo credit: Grant Durr
Apricot Press 