–After W.S. Merwin The Yellowlegs skims the surface of the creek. Polished by first light, the water frees its liminal soul from a veil of mist. It flies wing tip-to-wing tip with its self. The Sandhill crane cranks its voice. Ratchets its call to others standing tall among the reeds, their long necks just visible
shorebirds slicing the dawn into tatters. you found me without a tether. drifting in that endless blue, sans anchor, sans moor. I was a drenched and drowning thing until you, like Jove in the guise of an eagle, lifted me to higher realms. if I were a moon in your eyes, if there was mercy
Poured what remained of his dreams Into a cereal bowl – Well, it was actually a McDonald’s cup But it served the same function. Figured if he could eat it He could go on living it too Digesting it square by square, Calorie by calorie. Except it had lost its taste Or rather he’d lost
She spreads her wings, the luna moth, sea-foam green lit-through by the sinking sun on that evening on the path below the willow. You take my hand, your thumb stroking my palm to the slow beat of her wings. Her fuzzy antennae flutter in the evening air. Almost newborn, her wings, almost dry. Soon she
The Third Annual Carmen Ziolkowski Poetry Prize Winners The Literary Committee of the Lawrence House Centre For The Arts is pleased to announce the winners of the third annual Carmen Ziolkowski Poetry Prize. These poems were selected by judges Ryan Gibbs and Lois Nantais, with input from Carmen’s son Jim. They are: First Place- Katharine
I wake at dawn easing into my robe and slippers. I slip outside heeding the call of her ineffable beauty. This morning miraculous in full blossom when just a week ago her tiny, tight dark buds hid behind just opening purple leaves. Now no wind, though grey clouds allude to rain. Quietly padding on the
I am going to pour myself onto your shores dance in drips for your amusement glisten on pebble to catch your eye show you a treasure of broken things teach you persistence through smoothing rough edges remind you that constancy never has to look the same I am going to sit with you in the
All night the rain fell softly and slow, the sound on the roof, on the pond, on the fields falls on the memory, burning— but gentle the rain that quenches the night, that cleanses the ash in my mouth so that I wake to the wind in the cottonwood trees, the glittering silver-green leaves and
The doe nestles with her spotted fawn, her wise eyes stare out from the card, confident and composed, like a soothsayer’s familiar. More than tinctures and herbs, her knowing is everything earthly, grounded in Nature and the seasons. Tall grasses and cattails cloak her, bedded down while her little one rests up. Ears ever on
summer mornings dab the sun onto lapis sky peaks of pink lotus protrude from pond dimples stray paint drops suspended like floating fermata water molecules vaporize a silent migration forming mist, breath whisper— as if hearing the query a palm unfurls its digits inside squats a half-tadpole legs soggy, sensing it sees me and
