The upright scrawl of leaf cleaving last to the fig tree I mistake each daybreak for the bird-messenger, the one which I am sure will come flare the mouth of morning.
Laura Reece HoganOctober 12, 2021
Orbits have pulled us to this moment. Blessed are you who call me out of darkness to feed me low-hanging light, waxed amber and plump.
Laura Reece HoganOctober 12, 2021
They are not native, the Queen Anne's Lace, chicory, and birdsfoot trefoil that add so much to the country drive, as they wave back and from from the shoulder of the road.
John TerpstraOctober 5, 2021
This rain, which falls so lovingly not too hard, not too soft, on leaves and grass and on itself in puddles, should fall on my beloved sister, whose dry forests are in flame.
John TerpstraOctober 5, 2021
We say "He" without a name to speak of you, hear our own sounds echoed back from far away in the monitor's shush and fuzz.
Lisa AmplemanSeptember 28, 2021
There is a resolute black seatbelt. The thin aluminum rail clicks to a close.
Lisa AmplemanSeptember 28, 2021