Agnes Vojta – 2 poems

Ferrying Turtles

On the logs, the turtles dry in the sun:
cooters, map turtles, sliders.
As I approach, they drop, one by one,
into the river and swim away.

A box turtle is swept along,
bobs up and down, helpless,
wiggles her feet and stretches her neck,
trying to keep her head above water.

I reach her with my paddle,
scoop her up – she slides off with a splash
and floats further. Disappears
under a downed tree.

Reappears, struggling downstream.
I overtake her, grab her by the shell,
plop her into my kayak. Ferry her to the shore,
carry her inland to a patch of grass.

She takes off swiftly. No sign
of hesitation or bewilderment.
Some day she may tell the other turtles
about her encounter with God.

The One who Left

Like water flowing downhill,
letters now travel
only in one direction.

Life goes on for those who stayed;
a circle with one person missing
is still a circle.
The one who left floats,
fragile tethers frayed
by the teeth of time and distance.

After some years,
even the Christmas cards
remain unanswered.

Agnes Vojta grew up in Germany and now lives in Rolla, Missouri where she teaches physics at Missouri S&T and hikes the Ozarks. She is the author of Porous Land (Spartan Press, 2019) and The Eden of Perhaps (Spartan Press, 2020), and her poems have appeared in a variety of magazines. Her website is, and her facebook page is @AgnesVojtaPoetry.


Agnes Vojta – 2 poems



It is the hour of the bats. They streak

black across purple sky, dart

between silhouettes of trees

that swallow the bats into blackness.


My mother and I sit on the porch. Every night

we watch the fireflies appear

and dance on the grass. We cannot

decipher their coded signals.


Mom delights in the fireflies and the bats

and the moon as if she sees them

for the first time. The goodbye

leans its shadow over us. We both know:


this is her last visit. So we don’t

talk about grave things, but just

point out the bats

and drink the last of the wine.






Mondays are transitions.

We said goodbye Sunday night,

and you drove off, leaving

the house empty again.

I put away my hiking boots

and the red dress.


Mondays are bridges

to the week’s busy bustle.

Over coffee I consult

the calendar for appointments.

Outside, rain soaks

desolate February fields.


On Mondays,

I am off balance,

slow to settle into the day.

I stare out the window,

see the rain streak past,

and wait for equilibrium.



Agnes Vojta grew up in Germany and now lives in Rolla, Missouri where she teaches physics at Missouri S&T.

She is the author of Porous Land (Spartan Press, 2019).

Her poems recently appeared in As It Ought To Be Magazine, Gasconade Review, Thimble Literary Magazine, Trailer Park Quarterly,  Poetry Quarterly, Sonic Boom, and elsewhere.

Her website is