Iris Lennox

Tag: Longing

  • The Wren Comes Once a Year


    The wren comes once a year to me,
    in July, toward the close of day,
    when heat still trembles in the trees
    and all the shadows stretch away.

    He chooses neither branch nor wire
    but lands upon the weathered gate,
    his little breast a pulse of fire,
    as if a bird could carry a date.

    I stand inside. I do not move.
    The glass is warm beneath my hand.
    He lifts his throat into the grove
    and sings what I don't understand.

    Last year, I wrote a lyric here
    when this same wren sang into night.
    Tomorrow lingered, soft and near,
    inside his handful of twilight.

    This year he comes. I write a poem.
    He tips his head and sings once more.
    I do not ask how he has known
    to find the same July-lit door.

    This year I keep the window closed.
    The curtain stirs against my wrist.
    Outside, the evening bends and folds;
    the hedge turns blue beneath the mist.

    The wren knows nothing of before.
    He doesn't count what I have kept.
    He sings beside the garden door
    where last year's fallen petals slept.

    Perhaps he came for no one here.
    Perhaps the gate was simply near.
    Perhaps a wren comes once a year.

    And still I wait until he's gone
    before I move or breathe again,
    while dusk collects across the lawn
    and one small branch remembers the wren.

    —Iris Lennox

  • Nearly

    At half past two I cross the hall
    to fetch the book I left downstairs.
    The moon has laid a silver shawl
    across the floor, the walls, the chairs.

    And there you are.

    No—

    just my coat
    thrown on the chair the night before,
    one empty sleeve beside the oak,
    one shoulder leaning toward the door.

    The pipes knock twice behind the wall.
    Outside, the maple shakes its hood.
    A branch lets go. I hear it fall.
    I stay there longer than I should.

    The coat is mine. I know its weight.
    I know the tear beneath one arm.
    I know each button, cuff, and seam—
    yet cloth, for one breath, can feel warm.

    Still, something in the way it leans
    against the chair's familiar frame—
    the folded cloth, the empty sleeve—
    has nearly said a name.

    Nearly is a troublesome word.

    A letter nearly sent may wait
    inside a drawer, unseen, unread—
    but still, before it meets its fate,
    it knows the truth that wasn't said.

    Nearly home.
    Nearly forgotten.
    Nearly enough.

    I lift the coat to put away,
    inside the closet by the stairs.

    One hand finds mine inside the sleeve.
    I turn once slowly through the air.
    For one small moment, I believe—

    Its buttons touch my wrist.
    One empty arm rests against my own,
    and the smell of cologne
    nearly
    brushes my cheek.

    In the window,
    the glass reflects one of us.

    Wait—

    for one turn,
    perhaps two.

    So I turn once more.

    Then I return it where it lay,
    one cuff still folded toward the floor.
    The shadows gather where they may
    and leave me standing as before. 

    The window holds its square of sky.
    The pipes have all gone quiet now.
    The moon still silvers every wall.

    I reach for the railing.

    Behind me,
    the coat lets go.

    I hear it fall.

    —Iris Lennox