My aunt in her heyday / Scanned the skies / For signs of alien life, / Her skeptical husband bemused.
we walk through aisles of sunflowers
not all yellow
some with brown or amber centers
surrounded by petals
Fanny Howe, an award-winning poet who preferred the quiet life to center stage, died on Tuesday, July 8.
our room sidles / the Burren in Ireland’s West / crenelated lap of white / limestone gleams open / to the night’s full moon.
A child’s love / The truest of truth / Like pollen to flowers / Little bodies blossom / Where love blooms / Innocent and pure / Loving thy neighbor as thyself / Until they don’t / Where fertile ground / Let’s weeds grow too.
The visual music / of daffodil and forsythia / sends out vibrations of / early spring