Annette Dietz
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Annette Dietz graduated from Seton Hill University as an art education major. Her poems have appeared in various literary publications and anthologies. She has exhibited her art and poetry in multidisciplinary projects that brought together songwriters, poets and visual artists. She feels fortunate to have lived in many places including teaching overseas before returning to Pittsburgh to raise a family. Ms. Dietz has worked in local government for the past 16 years.”
Winter's Grace
My friend who lives in a deserted mine
tells me brokenness is a sacred cloak.
Tonight we walk to the quiet shrine.
He chips a small hole in the rough ceiling.
The moon settles on my upturned palm
with a dusting of brilliant snow.
“Some days, the best I can do
is clear a path for light.”
My friend who lives in a deserted mine
tells me brokenness is a sacred cloak.
Tonight we walk to the quiet shrine.
He chips a small hole in the rough ceiling.
The moon settles on my upturned palm
with a dusting of brilliant snow.
“Some days, the best I can do
is clear a path for light.”
This poem became a song recorded by the band, The Little Wretches.
A Cup of Russian Tea
is simply that
and the curve of any arm will do
when wisteria's in bloom.
But each tender brush of fingertips
weaves an intricate design
the tatting of a ghost left hanging in the air.
For all the careless moments you are caught:
your heart inside a street mime's box.
This poem appeared in City Paper.
is simply that
and the curve of any arm will do
when wisteria's in bloom.
But each tender brush of fingertips
weaves an intricate design
the tatting of a ghost left hanging in the air.
For all the careless moments you are caught:
your heart inside a street mime's box.
Aria
Within the only sunbeam
slicing through the forest dark
of thalo green and fallen pine
a single moth is treading light.
I strain to hear its wings
and start to cry remembering
that hollow bones of birds are strong
and weightless of necessity
each gently curving keel
protects a beating heart.
I think of clavicle and scapula
a tiny orbit for each eye
the stillborn notes inside a throat
of downy feathers hitting steel
swift, the silent shredding
that can bring a big plane down.
Within the only sunbeam
slicing through the forest dark
of thalo green and fallen pine
a single moth is treading light.
I strain to hear its wings
and start to cry remembering
that hollow bones of birds are strong
and weightless of necessity
each gently curving keel
protects a beating heart.
I think of clavicle and scapula
a tiny orbit for each eye
the stillborn notes inside a throat
of downy feathers hitting steel
swift, the silent shredding
that can bring a big plane down.
This poem appeared in Along These Rivers.