Before she saw Rothko’s colors before that late-life baptism
she was a parochial pagan bowing to a mediocrity of wheat
fields. Fine enough for a county-bound girl in Oklahoma gold
iridescent grain speaking seasons: combines, bales, harvest.

Continue reading… "Marked"

The Bare Trees

It’s not summer’s greenery I love but winter’s
deciduous branches yearning upward, sky falling into them,
blue or darker blue, a star or two descending slowly, limb to limb.

Like an argument, they proceed, more often than not
complex but every iteration visible, one growing directly from the other.

Continue reading… "The Bare Trees"

The Letter

No, the bad news hasn’t reached me yet,
though my body’s been preparing for it.
We’ve come a long way from the Pony Express.
Still, the distances have been challenging
to cross, the obstacles to overcome—
childhood, some bruises and broken bones,

Continue reading… "The Letter"