fireflies

by Ilma Qureshi

fireflies

can you catch a poem like a firefly?
flickering through nettles and
rising oak trees,
does a poem ever lay still?

does wisdom
like ripe plums
fall from branches

or does one make sense
by drawing water
casket after casket
from a swollen well?

just when you think of life as a beautiful orchid
full of oranges and unknown wonder,
your mother dies.

the world stops—
a ringing sound splits your ears
and then a blinding, white silence follows.

you are left
to make sense
of a splendid mess,
weeds thickening around your heart.

you must still rise from your bed,
comb your hair,
and somehow remember
that it is spring.

you must look at the trees outside your window
that bob and bellow
oblivious to your personal grief.

poems, just like life
ask you to river through
yet pause, and stare and
make sense of dropped plums
and fallen leaves.

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solace

each sunset
two sparrows
perch themselves on a wire
whispering secrets to each other

escaping
to lick some moments
of solace

behind them, clouds hang
their edges glistening in silver
like a bouquet neatly packed

in a moment, the sky will be empty
almost clean of color
ready to give birth

in another, it will turn grey
laying a blanket
in anticipation of rain

outside, the workers are not aware
of the feast nature has planned.
the gardener waters trees
listening to Indian songs
on his phone,
the laborers lay bricks, 
giggling, poking fun at each other.

just like nature, each arriving
to do their task
playful and full of laughter
and then departing quietly
once the work is done.

---

joy

one tree, with its small palms
another with its star-laced fingers
brush against the sky
the sky that looks like a sea
drained of water

this, however, does not prevent
crickets, from shivering with joy.
i sit here, thinking of the faint line
between life and death
and their party thickens and blooms

crickets do not carry burdens
of making sense
they lick life without a care,
here, letting out their song
here, letting out their cries

The Last Snow Under the Eaves

by Beth Horton

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Ilma Qureshi is a doctoral candidate at the University of Virginia, focusing on Persian poetics and South Asian literature. Hailing from Multan, a small town in South Pakistan, she grew up with a host of languages and writes in Persian, Urdu, and English. Her work has been previously published in literary journals such The Black Fork Review, The Roadrunner Review, Quillkeeper’s Press, Streetlight Magazine, Tafheem, Tareekh-i Adab-i Urdu, Active Muse, The Ice Colony, Rigorous Magazine, Tiger Moth Review, Poetry South, Last Leaves, EI Portal (ENMU), Months to Years, The Elevation Review, Audio Times, and Wingless Dreamer.

Beth Horton holds a degree in creative arts therapy, and she majored in health science at Niagara University, in Lewiston, New York. Her love for art began as a small child, watching her father paint into the wee hours of the morning. In addition to abstract art, Beth enjoys photography, mixed-media composition and sketches. Her work has appeared in several publications, including Aji Magazine, Club Plum, Olit, Months to Years, and Pensive.