2 poems

by Lulu Liu

the snow that came in October

was not impossible but not expected.

The city had not salted the roads.

There could have easily been

another crop of tomatoes.

We woke to a strange sight:

ice slumping leaf-heavy branches

all the way to the ground,

the begonias dead 

in a shocked, bloody heap –

the perimeters of our lives

having closed a notch tighter –

and stored those among 

other images of this year,

all out of order.

- October 2020

to the woman who stayed

The dogwood's been chewed on     

again     it won't bloom this year either     

yet at the first

breath of spring     you'll bear

the old shovel to its branches

break     the frost-sealed ground

and work a mound of compost

into the     exhale

There's much to do

to tender the     roots

of a human life

and you     have steeped

your tea of     discontent

long enough     too long really

day after lonely     day     over

and over     ducked

the swinging anvil of your 

anger     and you're glad to be

past all that     finally

This is the calm that

decision brings

the pain that is the     deep

ripening     has dulled

(an old well     grown over in

the meadow)     leaving 

just    a sutured    hollow   

Besides    there is always the

pleasure     of the night sky

always     sleep

in his gentle arms     always

the next life

Lulu Liu is a writer and physicist, who lives between Arlington, Massachusetts, and Parsonsfield, Maine. Her writing has appeared in the Technology Review and Sacramento Bee, among others, and recently her poetry in Apple Valley Review, and Thimble. She’s grateful to be nominated for Best of the Net 2023.