Jane Satterfield: Fox
is interloper, is fur of russet
and iron, is light-footed, is real
in my alley
Mary Jane White: Why, Friend, With Surprise and Awe
I weep easily and often
now for the world.
Dawn Potter: Island Weather
headlights painting streaks of rain
on my pale window, and still
the torrent comes faster, faster—bluster, leak,
Kari Gunter-Seymour: That Spot where Raccoon Creek Meets Brush Fork
I wish I could say
I lay your body under the honeysuckle
the day you crossed over, let vine and wisp
hang nectar all around you.
Christopher Bursk: The Plague in Early Spring
The first week in the first year of the plague,
when we told ourselves there was no plague,
the flowers were more than willing
to confirm our opinion.
Paul Laurence Dunbar: In Summer Time
‘Tis wealth enough of joy for me
In summer time to simply be.
Josephine Dickinson: The Water Bearers
we wriggled and followed
the path upstream,
coigned in its armbends, whinsill, lime,
humped heather, deer grass
Elizabeth Jacobson: There are as Many Songs in the World as Branches of Coral
As a child
I combed black rocks of a jetty
prying starfish from pools
shadow seeks shadow,
then both leaf
and leaf-shadow are lost
Jose A. Alcantara: Divorce
He has flown headfirst against the glass
and now lies stunned on the stone patio,
nothing moving but his quick beating heart.
Arlene Weiner: After the Emergence of the Periodical Cicadas
bouquets of cicada brides whose courtship
made the sky sing so in May.
The wedding music stopped, these are left,
to be caught by maidens in seventeen years.
Michael Simms: Consider the Hummingbird
Consider the hummingbird
How like the mind it is
Paul Christensen: Rainy and Cold Today
The soul is hungry in spring, and there is only the crisp, silent air to feed it.
William Hathaway: The Quiet of the Sky
Quietly, though. The sort of view
people look at and say awesome
while taking pictures of their faces
with their phones with nature scenes