An Evergreen I’ve Named Envy Not because it grows in stillness– a hundred pinecones hung on deep sleeves sent from a scrappy trunk– or because its leavings, like the chaff of shucked corn under the stone porch, soften a bed for rabbits lazing below, or that the highwire runs of spiders, strung needle to needle, grab light from morning dew. It’s the reaching up– to never tire of seeking its inborn height– in darkness as well as light.
Kathleen Goldblatt is a poet and a training member of the Inter-Regional Society of Jungian Analysts and the CG Jung Institute of New England. She is the author of Our Ghosts Wait Patiently, Finishing Line Press. Her work appears in The Comstock Review, Amethyst, The Healing Muse, Psychological Perspectives, The Literary Nest and five editions of the Wickford Rhode Island Poetry and Art Book. She often reflects on poetry on long walks with her dog, who never tires of listening.
Grand Little Things 