Margaret Krusinga lives in Bellevue, Michigan, a small rural town. Her very first piece, “Diagnosis,” was published in The Beautiful Space: A Journal of Mind, Art, and Poetry. She has also been published in The Metaworker Literary Journal, The Ravensperch, and The Garfield Lake Review. For Margaret, writing poetry is a small way to express a big idea. Raising chickens and gardening on sixty acres, she pens poems leaning toward nature and the meaning of life.
There they go again,
sway and swing, back and forth.
All trees dance in the wind,
all plants romp on the earth.
Trunks stoutly move in rhythm,
crowns nod, leafy-heads bang.
Waving branches click castanets,
tempests wildly clang.
Roots twist and twine together,
grab hold to the ground,
but they wish to jitterbug and fox trot,
to boogie all around—
and celebrate with all in nature
that swoop and fly and crawl,
for storms are all their lifeblood,
a blowing wet windfall.
My dog and I tromp through the fluff.
It is powder where we trail.
I see footprints as we puff,
squirrels and birds in great detail.
Canada Geese have wide, webbed prints,
mice, small paws, tail drags behind.
A rabbit’s track shows how it sprints,
back feet in front, a confusing sign.
Deer, a cloven hoof you’ll see,
opossum, clustered sets of paws,
Sandhill Cranes with toes of three,
raccoon’s look like stars with claws.
When it’s cold there’s oft’ a show,
a wildlife highway in the snow.