mobile photography

Mobile Photography & Art Saturday Poetry – ‘Fall’ by Didi Jackson with imagery by Jennifer Graham


This weeks Saturday Poetry, matched with mobile photography/art is entitled ‘Fall’ by Didi Jackson. “I am curious to know how we come to understand death, its permeance and inevitability. These two young girls were moved and saddened at the goldfinch’s crash into my window, but they accepted the result with a resolve adults either find more difficult or ignore all together. Unfortunately, I know this is only one of several sorrows they will face in their lifetime. I wish I could change that fact for them, but ultimately no one can”, explained Jackson of this poem.

I have matched this image entitled “And there are never really endings, happy or otherwise. Things keep going on, they overlap and blur, your story is part of your sister’s story is part of many other stories, and there is no telling where any of them may lead.”~ Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus. By @j a Graham – Jennifer Graham with this poem.

You can view and follow her work on Instagram here.

If you would like to be featured in our Saturday Poetry section, please ensure you include the hashtag #theappwhisperer to any images posted to Instagram. This will mean we will be able to consider it.

To view the others we have published in this section, go here.


‘Fall’ ©Didi Jackson


It is a goldfinch

one of the two


small girls,

both daughters


of a friend,

sees hit the window


and fall into the fern.

No one hears


the small thump but she,

the youngest, sees


the flash of gold

against the mica sky


as the limp feathered envelope

crumples into the green.


How many times

in a life will we witness


the very moment of death?

She wants a box


and a small towel

some kind of comfort


for this soft body

that barely fits


in her palm. Its head

rolling side to side,


neck broke, eyes still wet

and black as seed.


Her sister, now at her side,

wears a dress too thin


for the season,

white as the winter


only weeks away.

She wants me to help,


wants a miracle.

Whatever I say now


I know weighs more

than the late fall’s


layered sky,

the jeweled leaves


of the maple and elm.

I know, too,


it is the darkest days

I’ve learned to praise —


the calendar packages up time,

the days shrink and fold away


until the new season.

We clothe, burn,


then bury our dead.

I know this;


they do not.

So we cover the bird,


story its flight,

imagine his beak



They pick the song


and sing it

over and over again.

©Jennifer Graham

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