PHOTOGRAPH by Ruben Briseno Reveles |
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WETLANDS
by Jason Dean Arnold We are mostly made of water when we're born, but some is lost as we mature, leaving children to recognize the sea as love. Alone, sitting in the living room of our home, I swear that I can hear the springs bubble from an opening in the earth over a mile away while Governor's Creek ribbons around a thick system of roots, sliding over the surface of rocks in silence broken only by the winding creatures below. There are forgotten acts of liquid breathing and weightlessness inside of me. The brilliant green canopy wants me. The springs want me. They whisper to me, plead to me, to come inside and relearn all that I lost when leaving the womb. Life exists in your wetlands, and I recognize your sea as my own. You are made of water, and I desire to drink from you. |
BUDDHA BODHI SIAM by Baxter Jackson |
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ALL ENTANGLED
by Ann Floreen Niedringhaus Ice has no memory of water. In deep winter it can’t imagine ever being water again. Robert Creeley wrote … even the world itself is imagination. We cannot help but filter out much of what we see. Analyzing Antartica’s ice layers, scientists can describe the earth’s climate patterns over past centuries. The moment I name something I diminish it. — Technicians tell us nothing can ever be completely deleted from a computer. Albert Camus stated, We all carry within us our crimes, our betrayals and our ravages. Some days the world is reversed. The sun shines from beneath a fog bank. Therapist Edwin Friedman claimed, Only… poets are unafraid of ambiguity; everyone else goes to experts. Every piece of flotsam, tide-tossed, reappears eventually. Nothing is wasted. — Is it what cannot be said that has the power? Each spring cinnamon stick ferns appear overnight. They grow to three feet tall within a few days. Sometimes I try to navigate in the dark. Am I preparing for blindness? Jane Kenyon wrote … my disordered soul thirsts after something it cannot name. In June I found ice chunks in the middle of the warming compost pile. |
SHADOW FEET by Allyson Seconds |
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A SPRING BEGINNING
by B.Z. Niditch In the windy morning air the aspiring skies are tender above our woodland, a flock of blue jays rustle the whisper of branches on my favorite birch, even sunshine trembles at the edge of the pond near the riverbank, a jogging breathless poet eager for spring yet is patient for first light, a soft glance will lead these words like shadows to the shiver of tulips. |
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