Names
We swish through grass still
wet from last night's rain; a wall
of yellow fog floats toward
us. 
Zoe
catches scent and takes
off; the moment I call her name
she comes back. Even the pine trees
seem to know who they are,
no bare arms stretched long
and thin reaching for the light.
My father's name hangs around
my neck like a broken necklace,
the missing spaces hidden under my
collar loud against the hollows on
my neck. We've reached the pond,
bereft of its usual reflection. Today
it's murky; oily, yellowed ripples
drift. On the bank, a slender vase
transforms in a twist of its neck
to a long beaked egret, a few pastel
feathers on its head matching the bustle
of folded wings. We try very hard,
Zoe and I, to be still.
Still, it flies away.
-- Johanna Donovan
Johanna Donovan is a transplanted European and empty-nester
obsessed with poetry. She lives in New England with her husband, Michael
and their dog, Zoe,
who has a supporting role in many of her poems. To date, she has been published
in local newspapers.