Poetry by Katy Santiff
Who can tell me where she’s living at ease?
Is she cobbled into the willow’s boot,
or in the leaf-rustling rush of the breeze?
Is she yawning in the long-nameless vine
that stretches its neck to lick summer light?
Hibiscus bloom, she’s folding in at night?
Does she chitter to me in squirrel song–
message so short when meaning is long?
Is she sleeping dark/cold, or does she glow?
She must reside inside warm nights. She grows
petals over thorns below. What a rose.
But me–until I’m tucked in hallowed muck,
just a carbonic creed, I’ll bide a seed,
and one day root new feet below the weeds.
About the Poet
Katy Santiff has written poetry in various forms all her life. A fan of meter and rhyme, she loves lines that hypnotize the reader with their sound. She believes in densely-packed poems, preferring them to be mouthfuls when