West Trestle Review
  • Home
  • Current Issue
  • Past Issues
    • September 2024
    • May 2024
    • January 2024
    • November 2023
    • September 2023
    • May 2023
    • March 2023
    • January 2023
    • November 2022
    • September 2022
    • July 2022
    • May 2022
    • March 2022
    • January 2022
    • November 2021
    • September 2021
    • July 2021
    • May 2021
    • March 2021
    • January 2021
    • November 2020
    • September 2020
    • July 2020
  • Cross-Ties
  • About
    • Arrivals & Departures
    • Masthead
    • Submit
  • Archive
    • Beal, Jane
    • Burch, Beverly
    • Case, Katherine
    • Gunton, Kathleen
    • Gutowsky, Connie
    • Kralowec, Kimberly
    • Lee, Priscilla
    • Lipshin, Irene
    • Rudd Entrekin, Gail
    • Shea, Cathryn
    • Williams, Wendy
  • Home
  • Current Issue
  • Past Issues
    • September 2024
    • May 2024
    • January 2024
    • November 2023
    • September 2023
    • May 2023
    • March 2023
    • January 2023
    • November 2022
    • September 2022
    • July 2022
    • May 2022
    • March 2022
    • January 2022
    • November 2021
    • September 2021
    • July 2021
    • May 2021
    • March 2021
    • January 2021
    • November 2020
    • September 2020
    • July 2020
  • Cross-Ties
  • About
    • Arrivals & Departures
    • Masthead
    • Submit
  • Archive
    • Beal, Jane
    • Burch, Beverly
    • Case, Katherine
    • Gunton, Kathleen
    • Gutowsky, Connie
    • Kralowec, Kimberly
    • Lee, Priscilla
    • Lipshin, Irene
    • Rudd Entrekin, Gail
    • Shea, Cathryn
    • Williams, Wendy
Search by typing & pressing enter

YOUR CART

Geraldine Connolly

Gratitude

The acacias’ branches
take the wind into their hair
 
and the mesquite holds its leaves
close, rattling its thorns.
 
Each evening we watch the sun
preparing to leave the mountain.
 
Red brushstrokes pass over hard stones
as the wind passes over wild broom
 
and sweeps seeds into darkness
above the formation called Finger Rock.
 
A bobcat emerges from the mesquite’s shadow.
I am indebted to him and the mourning dove
 
cooing on the wall, the chattering quail,
her eggs in the clay pot and the white toad listing
 
along the sandstone. There is no gratitude enough
for the rabbit’s leap or the lizard’s rush
 
up the adobe wall. I have only thankfulness
for desert rain, the blooming ironwood
 
and the sky’s pink and black pillars of fire.
January / February 2023

Geraldine Connolly
Geraldine Connolly has published a chapbook and four poetry collections including Province of Fire and Aileron. She has taught at the Writers Center in Bethesda, Maryland, The Chautauqua Institution and the University of Arizona Poetry Center. She has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Maryland Arts Council, and Breadloaf Writers Conference and her work appears in many anthologies including Poetry 180: A Poem A Day for High School Students and The Sonoran Desert: A Field Guide. She lives in Tucson, Arizona.
Art: AI generated by DALL·E
  
Powered by Women