An intense calmness inhabits the poems in Jeanette Miller's Unscheduled Flights. In poem after poem, Miller writes with an abiding patience that trusts in the powers of her perspicacity and courageous hindsight. Crows, flowers, paintings speak for her grief, happiness, and resignations. Wisdom is her reward as she discovers time and again the bittersweetness in her reminiscences and the paradox of holding on by letting go. "On my balcony a red-orange hibiscus opens/ every few weeks in a shrill of color," she writes at the end of "Edgarly Cemetery," "It holds this position for days, then closes/ to itself. At day's end, quieted by stillness,/ a cup of tea in hand, I locate myself/ between short-lived blooms/ and all that distant flowering." And so she does. Miller's details transform into conceits with remarkably little irritable reaching. "Unscheduled Flights" left me with the impression that Miller had been waiting her entire life to write these poems, only to discover they had been waiting for her all along.