Poems by Nancy Takacs
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Coming Back
by Nancy Takacs
From Canary Spring 2020
Nancy lives in the northern Mesic forest in the Lake Superior watershed of northwestern Wisconsin, catching glimpses of animals who wander from the woods to her native garden.
Take the roots like old flannel,
gray tea roses,
a broken honeycomb
back near the barn,
where hydrangea, still blue,
sleeps on a beam
in a necklace of peppermint.
Touch the flowers, the leaves,
rustle and crumble them,
smell tea, smell
last summer.
Let the winter butter
of your right palm
grasp the shovel’s
bitter handle,
and guide with your left
under the apple tree,
in quarter-blossom.
Lift earth, its many worms,
turn the plot where mother-of-
thyme is somehow
never gone.
Come back to where
all the bees you wanted to hold
last fall, are moving shadows
at your elbows, little humming
nights bound with gold.
Previously published in Clover
© Nancy Takacs
Garter Snake
by Nancy Takacs
From Canary Summer 2020
O snake with a toad in her mouth,
a toad way too big for her,
a toad she has to bloody and numb.
Tomorrow you’ll shed your green skin.
You were on my stone path right out in the open.
I could touch your gold stripe.
I could see how vulnerable
you were, as you crushed
and swallowed.
He was not drawn in easily.
Twice he escaped,
punctured and slathered.
I saw how you let him
come to his senses.
You are the queen of dusk
who disappears in my lavender,
pink foam on your lips.
O snake,
I am your silent partner.
Previously published in Clover
© Nancy Takacs