Two poems by John Gallagher

• Reconnaissance
• The sun’s rays against this pile of oak awaken
• A world. We’ve fenced it off with chicken wire
• To deter them, our local thieves, who take in
• Every detail. We never see but hear
• Them on patrol. Predictable as the fall
• Of leaves, that scratch of tires and metallic skip
• Of bike chains in the dark. Sometimes they steal
• A rake forgotten in the yard, or slip
• Away with packages from the porch.
• Begrudgingly we allow them cans and bottles
• From the recycling bin. In summer they search
• The garden for its unpicked vegetables.
• Hunger drives us all. Our wood is warmth to us
• And them as well. And so, we guard these logs
• As best we can, while they await that generous
• Hour opportunity provides: our dogs
• Asleep, the floodlight out, and heavy winds
• To hide the clamorous work of plunder.
• Nothing missing this morning. I rub my hands
• Against the cold, then circle back and wonder.

• First Signs
• (May 1, 2020)
• It’s time again to pull the weeds and train
• The vines, to plant new seeds and watch for rain.
• It’s past time. Winter deaths withered early spring
• And have weakened my resolve. Yet, still I cling
• To last year’s certainties now proven false.

• I knew winter would come and that the pulse
• Of rufous wings and Robin songs would cease.
• I understood a stillness must increase
• In the evening shade that would soon entice the pears
• To drop and settle beside the garden shears.
• I thought I had already encountered it before.

• The eager, even anxious, morning hour,
• When frost no longer holds past dark, had been
• For me that first desire. I’d let the screen
• Door slam behind me as I ran outside
• To taste the changing air, inspect the shed,
• And start to sort the mess that winter had left.

• This year is not familiar. We are bereft
• Of rhythm in its return. Absence remains
• Palpable, like the unhealthy film that stains
• The half-emptied ditch along my neighboring road.
• We wear masks everywhere we go and load
• Our cars with toilet paper, bags of beans,
• And rice.

• This is no usual spring, but rains
• Will come. I think the rains will come.
• At least, I pray they will, and prayer’s a kind of trust.

John Gallagher holds a B.A. and M.A. in English from the University of Dallas. He and his family live in the Northwest.