Woken with a headache, loud complaint against the inflatable mattress on the tiny apartment floor, I stare outside where lightning flashes far away, and wind tousles treetops – knavish heralds of a thunderstorm. Under the streetlights below, brilliant greenery overlays vibrant paint schemes, wood scrollwork no longer seen in mass-produced suburbia, those drab by comparison.
shelter cold empty beach daytime mine in slow pacing walk seaside lone thought view nature calm being ice mist breath steam air drift upwardly rising silent fall rain glowing distant horizon rough wooden steps climbing drizzle escaping under paint-peeled tin shelter sit comfort dry bench second-hand wool coat pulled tightly be nearer grateful safe cover
Psalm for a Changing Climate Comforted by damp grasses, by massive maples that shade my simple house, I linger far from wilderness. Those dry lands whether formed from ancient ocean or very newly made from wildfire and desperation, from ash-black sands are someone else’s home, not mine. Nearby, a river sings nourished by summer rains—though
Ghosts of Winters Past I remember the Christmas when I awoke to see a shiny new toboggan standing tall beside the tree and winter breaks spent sliding down a frozen hill where neighborhood kids could all be found rosy cheeks and tingling toes under sunny skies at ten degrees below boots trudging and crunching through
Dan couldn’t see the curves of the bay through the driving rain. The storm was getting worse, and Jenni was out there. He hoped she would circle round and wait. She was experienced; she’d know what to do. The rocks at the end of the bay disappeared into the waves. Dan caught sight of a
Weather Report While the meteorologists stood there pointing at their forecasts on the local news stations, people were making dinner, tossing treats to their cats, filling dog bowls, reminding kids to do their homework, & stretching their heads to get a glimpse of the mundane weather report: one more cloudless day, no rain in sight,
Lights shining in the distance, Leading people to dance, Eating delicious food, Along with friends and family, People praying to god, Surrounded by bright colors, Arrays of flowers, Gifts are given, Fireworks illuminate the sky, The feeling of happiness, Spreads through people, Diwali is here.
The twelve-year-old boys and girls sat on the ground in a semi-circle with their fathers sitting behind them, facing the king. The king was seated on the royal throne in full regalia — leopard-skin cape, lion-tooth necklace, golden bracelets encrusted with jewels on both his wrists and ankles, his scepter was made of zebra wood
Easter morning you pull on black hoodie, force calloused feet into red Reebocks, deny three times you’re in a rush, blow off brunch. No leg of lamb for this eighteen-year-old. I slip an oversized card into my purse. Easter, after all, is about hope. I envision you sauntering past hostess stand, late, table for four,