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Terry Savoie has had nearly four hundred poems published in journals and anthologies here and abroad over the past four decades. These include APR, Ploughshares, ACM, Tar River, The Iowa Review and North American Review as well as recent or forthcoming issues of The American Journal of Poetry, One, Bluestem, Cortland Review, Chiron Review and Coal Hill Review among others. A chapbook, Reading Sunday, won the Bright Hill Competition and was published in the spring of 2018.
Burrs & Cockles: Johnson County, Iowa (1979)
By Terry Savoie

“…and carry burrs and cockles 
  on our clothes from field to field.”

On her late-September morning's jaunt
     into the countryside, she skirts 

the edges of a dozen four-square cornfields 
     collecting beggar-ticks – stick-tights she insists 

on calling them – & burr marigolds that hang on to her 
     for dear life's sake, so many pins 'n' needles 

clutching fast to her worn-thin blue jeans 
     & an old, second-hand Army Surplus jacket, 

those two-& four-pronged opportunists 
     holding nothing back as they catch 

& cling while she armies onward, plowing 
     ahead through the morning's wet ditch grass 

to ferret out a smallest snippet of wonder
     to render a line for her next poem.  

What is it now that so bemuses her with 
     all the seeds' unabashed need for

attachment & tenderness. She sees how all
     this comes so close to a mother's own love.

                                   – for Sandra McPherson
In the Fifth Season
By Terry Savoie

Summer shutters down & so we're moaning over
     the raw winds coming on with winter not far

behind. Won't be long now before we're looking 
     out & pining for spring to return so our garden

     ornamentals, the chipped stone birdbath that's
now much too heavy to easily carry, the only clay

mushroom left of the excellent trio we once had
     from decades back &, finally, that long-eared,

     badly rusted, iron rabbit who forever manages
to oversee those seasonal, garden transitions from

lilies-of-the valley to those very last day-lilies
     & the wilted brown, broad-leafed hostas hug-

     ing the shady north side of the house. Soon 
the time will come when we'll be simply un-

able any longer to name the four seasons in order.
     Then maybe another will come to look in on

     us, someone who remembers what summer once
signaled & how our intrepid rabbit, the stone bird-

bath & our last clay mushroom felt, happy perhaps
     under autumn's waning, mid-afternoon sun, 

     waiting to hear us say to each other that days
are shorter & sooner that we wish winter will be here.