March Morning by Steven Knepper

March Morning

The maple limbs sprout tight-bound nubs
Of burgundy. Green scissors through
The withered grass. The once-trimmed shrubs
Shag out new licks of growth askew.

Here on the cusp of day and spring
We sit and window-watch a jay
Pick suet seeds, shake loose a wing,
Tuck up and tumble off away.

Bright eager light spills on it all,
An augur of the gilded boom
To come: the buzz, the pollen fall,
The flowering cascades of bloom.

How can we think of work and school
Now that each dewy dab’s a jewel?

by Steven Knepper

Editor’s Note: This sonnet contains a bounty of startling imagery, perfect rhymes, and skillful meter. Such poems are a joy to read.

For The Shade Gap Ladies Auxiliary by Steven Knepper

For The Shade Gap Ladies Auxiliary

The masters share their favorite recipes,
The measurements and times transcribed with care.
Their friends approximate the taste with ease
But don’t achieve the dish that won the fair.

Particularity of stove and pan
Can introduce a teaspoon’s worth of risk,
More so the eyes and nose with which they’re scanned,
The hand and wrist that briskly move the whisk.

The body’s knowledge won’t abstract to words,
At least not fully, lettered out and read.
Experience itself must be procured,
A taste, a touch, a smell that won’t be said.

It takes sensation shared at tabletops,
A long apprenticeship on tired legs,
Pouring together over bowls and pots,
To pass on lessons shelled like speckled eggs.

by Steven Knepper

Editor’s Note: No matter how many times I try, or how carefully I follow the recipe, my meatballs do not taste like my mother’s meatballs. Nor do they taste like my grandmother’s meatballs, but then, neither did my mother’s. Some things cannot be copied, only remembered fondly.