Sometimes it just stuns you
like an arrow flung from some angel’s wing.
Sometimes it hastily scribbles
a list in the air: black coffee,
thick new books,
your pillow’s cool underside,
the quirky family you married into.
It is content with so little really;
even the ink of your pen along
the watery lines of your dimestore notebook
could be a swiftly moving prayer.
Posted by kind permission of the poet.
Yes there is fear. Yes there is isolation. Yes there is panic buying. Yes there…
Walking the river back home at the end of May, locust in bloom, an oriole…
Last time I saw her—no kidding— she was descending from a beat-up Winnebago in the…
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