Kate Anderson is originally from Southern West Virginia, but currently lives in Pittsburgh PA with her chihuahua Finnegan.
She focuses on multi-disciplinary studies and holds a BA in psychology and philosophy as well as an MFA in creative writing and an MEd in Secondary Education, all of which are from WVU. She currently teaches English and creative writing as an online instructor for South University and Bluefield State College. In addition to this, she fills her time with many side projects including volunteer assistance on grants for Pittsburgh nonprofits and the writing of encyclopedia articles for Salem Press.
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Perennial
These leaves fell and
we couldn’t turn on the Weather Channel
for what was left of winter.
You might miss me.
I might love you
(in a finicky sort of way).
Your toes making molehills in the dirt,
burying the seeds of
a revolution (canned
for future potlucks, amassed
for future demonstration)
The stem,
plucked and wound
tightly around your ring finger,
a reminder for
the uses of dandelion:
liver tonic, cleanser,
merry-maker, garden wrecker,
annual.
You scraped soil
from split fingernails,
wiped pollen from the tip of your nose.
Common plant.
We might
tell this to the kids,
plant a rose bush
along the hedge.
*
next spring.
Over the Fence
There are no role models for
girls in floral dresses,
soft spoken wallflowers,
asters late to bloom.
They struggle to button up
awkward fronts and
sideways glances down
zippered backs,
but they might as well eat buttercups
for all the good
a man’s attention will do them.
At night
in ballrooms and bars across the valleys
these Desert Stars
close up,
pull their delicate arms
over their bowed heads.
Few care to notice
a Dandelion in the yard.
Those who do say,
better to pull them up,
throw them over the fence.
*
Many die well
holding their seed heads tall and proud
long after the flowers have finished.
Flowery Sentiment
The petals, blooming up from –
green bosom;
there, on the windowsill - potted, planted,
placed (uncultivated). And buried,
awaiting the overthrow of soil;
a jack in the box, she
pedaled around for your amusement…
until, digging her elbows into the dirt,
leaning against the rim of her clay pot,
I just wanted a body to curl my roots around, a place to lay my stems.
Her shoots, necking against the Chrysanthemum;
rosy cheeked, turned upwards to the Kalanchoe,
I just wanted to breed my thoughts in the draft around these walls, but
leaves curled into hips, broadened and stout;
last picked, and never invited to the garden party,
if those are your hands around my stalk,
then maybe I’ve been picking flowers too long.