All Posts By

Rebecca A. Spears

Poetry

Mirabilia, in the Garden

If, at the harvest, I bring you a jug of cold water,and you drink till you are drunk, I am your servant. If, in the

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Poetry

There was, and is

I became a mother,my life upendedthe way persistent rain todayhas filled the watering can,overturning it. Doesn’t love seek lovealways? My own mother held meso close

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