Kathleen O’Toole: A dimmer hope
First crack of crimson
in the January morning sky
engenders such an ache, not
only for the sun’s escape
from cloud block, but ours
from winter’s grip.
Kathleen O’Toole: Her Grip
Now, her magnificent grasp
of language diminished, her hands
express all there is to say: hold me,
stay with me. Don’t leave me alone.
Kathleen O’Toole: On Grief, in a time of pandemic
What I’m learning about grief is that
it comes and goes, like the shadow in front of me
on the afternoon sidewalk.
Michael T. Young: The Gift
I’m rocked into fields
of a lyrical witness, history rolls over
glittering in sunlight
Kathleen O’Toole: Mindful
Samsara’s in every in-breath, each shutter click of attention: first warning
signs of famine, children lining up
for the soldiers’ candy
Kathleen O’Toole: Starlings (corrected version)
My mind suddenly shifts
to tally one week’s arithmetic of grief:
eighty children among the hundreds killed
in a fine-tuned cone of shrapnel