by Daniel Lusk
For some, it’s a robin.
For him, a spider in the sink.
A yellow birch down
across the lane, white slush
a hand’s breadth deep,
floating on the mud.
by Daniel Lusk
For some, it’s a robin.
For him, a spider in the sink.
A yellow birch down
across the lane, white slush
a hand’s breadth deep,
floating on the mud.
Filed under Poetry
by AE Hines
Lying with the man I love,
I muse about a farm
high in the Colombian mountains,
where terraced slopes of coffee
meander valley to peak
and disappear into mist. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by John Grey
I strolled through the alfalfa field
circled by panicked insects
and with a storm slowly making something
of the warm, too peaceful, air. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Doreen Beyer
He wears the eyes of his ancestors,
small dots
the sharp points of bird bone,
black indelible eyes
enormous with the weight of knowledge. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry