Poetry at 50, in the US, as a woman [white], 2021, during a pandemic, in a glorious & painful spring, a flash poem, in four parts

1. Our flags always fly at half-mast now.Wide and unhealed wounds on high for the world to seeflap dripping loss and pus rains down into the public square. Below themwhite men, whips still in handand a few hard-yoked women, their heads downplodding alongfacing only...

The Invitation

I love it when the wind strolls in and my meadow friends dance and bow. Love it when waves rush to crash across my ocean where the wide beach smiles up where the eagles rest silent on the wind above etch greetings sky to horizon down to me all the way home: carried...