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Category: Free Verse Poetry

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Photosynthesis

At seven a.m. the trees at this park make a green horizon like a fence whose slats are neither warped or out of place. It is the only green part of the day. Lawns are brown, their grass as dead as brooms. It’s October and the trees still have leaves. We are in need of

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Where A Poem Resides

With a fleeting first glance, I walked past you standing along the path, instead giving more attention to my footing and my morning conversation. But something about your weathered features struck me. I knew I needed to see more of you. So, I turned around. Retraced my steps. Approached you, reverently. Raised my camera ready.

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Migrants of the Marsh

–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

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Discarded Life

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

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Contemplating the Cherry Tree

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

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every day (a love letter from Lake Huron to us)

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

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The Rain

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

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Soothsayer’s Familiar (after Tarot’s ‘Mother of Pentacles’)

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

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a lotus blooms at dawn

  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

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Late March

Late March The deck has collected a weight of snow. How else to describe that body? Laying flat across the foot of the door blocking my exit, detailing the railings as snow swirls on winds that howl like voices in the channel where roof meets the walls of my shelter during a mid-winter storm. In

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