a label that pulls cleanly off the glass jar a load of laundry where every sock has a match a bag of rice that empties perfectly into the jar a finished row of stitches…
1. this tiny bouquet. {and getting to pluck it from our own little pots.} 2. this bag. {as trusty as ever and filled with mostly sweats for a rainy weekend.} 3. this giant paper…
September After the flare of the match strike, we’re off. I tryto stop to wave, “bye.” by Adriana Stimola…
I see it as it looked one afternoonIn August,-by a fresh soft breeze o’erblown.The swiftness of the tide, the light thereon,A far-off sail, white as a crescent moon.The shining waters with pale currents strewn,The…
The truth is, I’ve never cared for the National Anthem. If you think about it, it’s not a good song. Too high for most of us with “the rockets’ red glare” and then there…
Put down that bag of potato chips, that white bread, that bottle of pop. Turn off that cellphone, computer, and remote control. Open the door, then close it behind you. Take a breath offered…
“I have a different story to tell at 75 than I did at 25. Fifty years makes a difference and so if there’s a poet listening to us right now, one of the things…
In cakes, plums. At night, breezes. Through hair, brushes. On heads, pigtails. Over shoulders, backpacks. In pouches, pencils. Inside t-shirts, names. On morning sidewalks, footsteps. Under the fence, asters. Among the milkweed, monarchs. In…
In train cars, beach-bound city folk. On corn cobs, butter. At bedtime, fans. Before dawn, birdsong. For breakfast, birthday cake. Under fingernails, cherry juice. On shoulders, arms, legs, and bellies, still more sunscreen. Between…
The first of the neighborhood roses and these words: 1 Only now, in spring, can the place be named: tulip poplar, daffodil, crab apple, dogwood, budding pink-green, white-green, yellow on my knowing. All winter…