The Poetry of Nina Romano

Nina Romano


Clouds condense and drift,
curdle like a spiral of loneliness—
fog on an outside staircase
winding down.

There’s a scimitar moon;
its crescent north and south
points attach
to a roadway of sky
so blue it’s black.

Stars append
in a celestial mansion.
Three constellations:
Heavenly Cowherd
Flock Shepherd
and Planetary Weaver Girl
emerge in my mind
and where emptiness abounds,
their children run barefoot
in a greensward
where, overhead, I paint them—
white, scintillating, aloof
on the roof of the world.


The night between
summer solstice
and the rest of my life,
cloud covering masks,
making for a hatchback moon—
beams stream down
like summer rainfall sheeting
on a windowpane. On the porch
the rocking chair sits empty
except for a woven Indian blanket
of red and white.

I found you, I lost you. Where are you now?


I went out on the porch
and gazed at the surrounding hills,
the quaking aspens wavering
in a gentle breeze,
the stealthy deer crossing north,
and night descending.
I wait to see
an arrow of moonlight.
Then clouds rush
in and a spring rain begins
with tender drops
to wet the flowers:
daffodils, tulips, lilacs.
Like foggy breath
in cool air,
I see my life
in the energies
of radiant stars:
evanescent fleeting,
departing from the start.


Riding along Route 40
in the new white truck,
I turn onto Exit 4, turn right
onto State Road 248, and drive past
Round Valley Drive
toward Park City, where the view
astounds me every time.
Clustered in the shade of hills
and almost touchable mountains,
I see the flocked-trees yawn, leafing out
and on their stretched branches buds,
like snowflakes, blossom here and there.

A masterpiece unfolds before me:
shrub barriers, a shelterbelt of pines—
the gentle sway of anxious aspens quaking
as if their destiny depends on
grappling air currents and breezes
heavy enough to grasp and fling
carrying a cluster of barn swallows aloft
to nest in the eaves of mountain houses
painted dun and tan and the sallow
green of shallows of the Provo River.

As I continue on my drive towards town,
I picture the lamas, horses, and burros
left behind on Route 40,
and wonder how they get along.