Scribbling
By Kate Smith

My grandmother's journal entries start with the blunt 
edge of the sky:

its hue, or its imposition 
over a new year or a new place. 

She records those first frantic thoughts 
before life condenses 

and she hibernates again. Right now, 
it’s spring and the daffodils’ verdant tips 

breach the full cup of earth. 
Below the Japanese maple, the sun 

exaggerates all the ways the soil is rich. 
Right now, I see her scribbling, 

anchoring the color swirling around her 
with the swift script of her pen. 

The honeysuckle is in labor 
and the minutes quicken. 

Right now, it’s spring—
life forces the words out green.

---

Kate Smith (she/her) is a poet and editor based in Walla Walla, Washington, where shrub-steppe meets rolling hills and cutting rivers. Her poetry has been featured in anthologies from Sunday Mornings at the River and Beyond the Veil Press and in HNDL Mag. She is also a collage and fiber artist and community journalist. Follow her on Instagram @bugs.et.kisses.

---

Artwork Source: “Garden,” by Lauren McKinnon.