Thursday, December 14, 2023




I never glimpse her but she goes

Who had been basking in the sun,

Her links of chain mail one by one

A glint with pewter, bronze and rose.

I never see her lying coiled

Atop the garden step, or under

A dark leaf, unless I blunder

And by some motion she is foiled.

Too late I notice as she passes

Zither of chromatic scale —

I only ever see her tail

Quicksilver into tall grasses.

I know her only by her flowing,

By her glamour disappearing

Into shadow as I'm nearing —

I only recognize her going.


A. E. Stallings

This Afterlife

Selected Poems

Farrar, 2022