Jane Vincent Taylor

Jane Vincent Taylor

Jane Vincent Taylor was schooled by nuns. One told her to read Edna St. Vincent Millay. Now Jane has degrees three different degrees: women's studies, information science, creative writing. Her true education came from teaching 20 years at Ghost Ranch in New Mexico. Her book of narrative poems, The Lady Victory, was adapted for the stage at Michigan State. Her most recent book; Let There Be Swimming, was written during the summer of the pandemic lockdown. If Jane has another decade she intends to be a better pollinator. Come on, you butterflies. Feed on the beauty.


Taylor's book, "Let There Be Swimming" is available. Visit their website for more details and to read more:  JaneVincentTaylor.blogspot.com

Let There Be Swimming

Cover art: Marissa Raglin


Time Off the Path

We all agreed to step off the path

hike and help each other down

steep leafy banks, slide creek-wise

stealth as bluff creek deer.

We listened to water burp and breathe

over fallen blackjack oak, pinon pine.


Far away we heard a dog we called coyote.

Two ducks were bathtub toys gone free together.

We knew their floating thoughts.


One of us was for the moment just a child.

The one with a brand new walking stick was old.

One of us was ghost disguised

as a small crochet of gnats

delicate and slap-worthy

as summer spirits always are.


Some Things I Know About My Keeper


She knows nothing about orchids

and how we live - nodal, sympodial


how we find a way to bud and flower

in a dry pocket of rhizome roots


My new keeper also lives on the lip

and shape of air, moist and steamy


She sleeps and wakes and sleeps

then spends her small energies


moving me from table to desk

to counter top, to ironing board


She's decided I do best in east light

and company of birds, the ones


she prays to for blue renewal

and scolds for red wing avarice


In the night I hear her dreaming

of her silken self, her orchid days


Few words pass between us

I say anthur cap and sepal, she says


over a pot of fennel tea, wren

rock dove, shantung maple tree


When she sits with her white page

I do my best to scent the room


Labellum I suggest, but she says no

that word won't do, won't work today


My keeper is an old inflorescince

dictionary, a leathery leaf



we help each other breathe.


My Next Door

maybe endless love awaits us
Barry Lopez

Sometimes I suspect the neighborhood Facebook app deliberately stirs up trouble. Someone fears a beat up truck, or a blue Sedan parked too long on a side street or a foreign face, or a lost coyote in the park at night.

Today's report: 40 Robins gathered at the corner of May and Grand. Are they a gang, feathered swoop, a band, a February orchestra? Are they a day patrol, a committee, an ad hoc hoard? Is this a red breast pop-up shop, a Monday ideation breaking up our worries? Are they immigrant angels, an artist's installation made of beaks and tiny beating hearts?

I applaud this news, this naked wonder on Next Door. Ans at my own bronze feeder two wrens so in love they have no time to be the subject of a post, just a duo, a couple, and a remembered winter quote.