Poetry
Winter 2005
Thorns. Thistles.
The finches jig and sprint. They tease the sprinkler's oscillating spray That pulses like a sterling macramé Of water on the lawn. If actuaries are to be believed, Barring unforeseen […]
Poetry
Spring 1999
The Wasp That’s Lately Died
She came last afternoon to find This window latched against the April air, And soon forgetting how she’d pinched between The battered screen and warped wood of the sash, Began […]