by Carol Casey The path is trodden, dusty, level.You know it will take youwhere many have gone. Step off—tangles of brambles,sometimes with blackberries,more often with little clawsthat catch on clothes and skin;and tortuous tree roots—inconvenient, sacred data unearthed—subterranean snakelets somehowsifted into snarls for feet to catch.There are stems that twine…
by Stephen Mead Is this pen & a million other quills from a still living bird. My hand is yours’ wiping sweat from your face & finding some trace to form. It is resolved now. It is patient & the night blooms with that light of quiet faith & hunger….
by Stephen Mead 1 These berries seem candles within, their blue juice lucent, distilled right on the vine. Malleable hands shape supple bunches, the sun’s aristocracy. How pure is the fingered fruit, clear globes in palms! Could what they capsule be medicine? Multi-tongued? From country to country, healing is an…