Midnight in New Orleans
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
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
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
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
Echoes of the Storm
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