JANUARY 2012: POETRY by Barbara Crooker The goldenrod's tarnished and dull, gone to rust, as the Dow Jones plummets like the mercury on a January night, echoing Frost's warning that nothing gold can stay. Not the birch leaves that glittered like sequins on a tap line, not the marigold's petals, not the finch's wing. It falls through our fingers, pebbles in a placer's pan. We try to spend it, but the days are too short, and the stores won't…
Barbara CrookerOctober 30, 2014