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SNOW IN APRIL
by Erren Geraud Kelly A woman sits by me On the T French braid draping The left side Of her neck Which is luminous As milk She is unexpected Like the snow falling outside Immediate, yet fleeting I asked her if her hair Was brown or Red? She said she didn't know Now, the braid becomes A question mark I know she will be around Me only as long as The snow |
RED AND GOLD by Ruben Briseno Reveles |
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CHESTNUT
by Erren Geraud Kelly It's neither brown, nor red She tells me But her hair is the color of Fall She is wearing fall as she Washes dishes at the Community kitchen Her hair hides under a baseball cap It looks wondrous when It all comes down In a flannel shirt and jeans She is ready for winter Leaving her dreams in The snow like footprints But winter isn't here yet And neither of us are Scared She is a leaf, her smile is Her anthem A bright candle on the Breeze |
EGGSHELLS by Brent Wiggans |
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ORIGINS
by Lisa Masé You slide an Amarone bottled in 1992 from your Vermont farm house wine rack where it dutifully collects telling dust. "Dalla cantina di Nonna Dina": you name our grandmother's treasured cellar, cool even in summer's noon. Being sent to the basement those days seized me with dreadful delight, weaving wordless images of what might lurk behind that oak door. Deep breath. Open wide to the mold-mottled sausages dangling from top shelves where Fontina wheels peer with butter-dulled rinds. Lower still — shiny jars of apricot jam, proud dark bottles of elderberry syrup, dried wild mushrooms bagged in muslin and crusty rye bread wrapped in newspaper — all preserved with the patience of mountains. There, gleaming with egg-wash on the marble work table, I spotted my charge: crostata di mele. Bravely I carried the apple tart upstairs. When you show me this wine in the golden light of your kitchen, I remember the rubbled road that leads from the house to the stream and back, so often walked that I never feel lost again. |
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