by Carol Casey The August sun has almost spun the straw to gold in the large stack behind the barn. We take turns sliding down its side, whooping in the earthy smell, the scratchy stalks tickling. Not sure why I go down backward, push off so hard. I land with a thump on almost…
by Ray Corvi The funeral parlor opened its front doorOut flew a dandelion’s wind-borne seeds Mourn the way the trees have thrownLimbs branching skyward into leaves
by Ray Corvi It begins with a lapsus I climb out of the windowinto the boughs of trees become a bird& fly away and find myselfgrafted to the day * the window: open it–– I shall leap and soar I can whistle any tune the songs they o-pen as windows or…