My poem Milkweed will be published in the San Francisco based journal “Lone Mountain Literary Society”.

A photo of milkweed that I took while out walking 

and writing a poem I titled after it.

I am very pleased to share my poem “Milkweed” will be published in the next issue of Lone Mountain Literary Society.

According to their webpage, “Lone Mountain Literary Society is a collective of writers, editors, and artists based out of San Francisco, California. We are chiefly interested in topics of reflection and transcendencein poetry, storytelling, and visual art. We love the mysteriousness of metamorphosis, a bristling voice, thoughtful craft, and work that stretches the philosophical mind and stirs emotions.”

It

Prior to this acceptance, this piece was decline by two other literary journals. Then, just last week, I received a letter from one of my long-standing friends who is also both an artist and a poet. They wrote that of my recent poetry they favored “Milkweed.” 

After I read their letter, I re-read the poem asking myself what doesn’t need to be here. I have marked what I removed in the photos below.

First, I removed the second line in the first stanza.

Next, I removed the entire third stanza.

I then re-read the entire poem again. Satisfied with the changes, I immediately submitted it to Lone Mountain Literary Society via Submittable around 8 pm that evening. At just after noon the next day, I received an email joyously accepting it. I confess I let out a loud and celebratory “YES!” when I read the news. Love your work, but always remember good editing loves it too. Here is the revised poem:

Milkweed

I walk this path

just up the street

to a small stand

of milkweed pods

which beckon

remembered 

cattail dipped 

ponds and a 

family farm 

where wood 

stove ash 

plumed into 

the sky as my 

grandmother rolled 

out the crust

for mincemeat pie.

I walk this path  

accompanied 

by a nearby jay 

and a cawing crow 

wondering if 

I have shelled 

peanuts to throw.

I stop on the 

curved and flower 

flecked curb 

to quickly sketch 

the charcoal briquette 

of a Sweet birch 

tree’s bark,

it’s limbs now 

mostly vacant 

of its yellow 

leaves.

I walk this path 

of labored cement

spotting beneath 

brittle and curled

fern fronds and 

browned-tipped reeds 

plaques engraved 

with green fish 

and “Green Streets”

marking where 

planted milkweed 

fed migrating 

monarch butterflies 

now diapausing 

in the Southern

Hemisphere.

I walk this path 

as a fenced 

dog barks

and a car, not a 

goose, honks.

I stand before 

the milky mouths

of grayish-brown

milkweed pods 

and watch their 

seeds rise and flutter

into the soft wind

of an autumn breeze

and find myself 

wanting to be

kissed

passionately.

I walk this path

back now as 

night descends.

The shadows of

a Western Red

cedar tree’s

lower limbs craft 

silhouettes down

the leaf littered lane.

I’m almost home

as I see ahead

the lit night 

lanterns of

high-rise condo

windowpanes.

I walk this path 

peppered with

squirrel bitten 

purple figs

and bruised 

persimmons.

Reaching my

door steps, a 

long-favored tune 

dances in my head.

While turning key 

into lock, I croon 

“Come sing 

a song with me,”

adding “and with 

the milkweed 

we will be three.”

Susan Slocum Dyer

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