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...

Becoming Respite

I move in the world a changed being now being now today the yellow grass in the field up the hill is bowing to the rain the sea and the land and the sky cede their colors into fog becoming one passing waxwings eat red berries off the vine, laugh at the cat through the...