Video: Mush Luv
Tony and Ajani, two mushroom foragers based in Minneapolis, spend the day foraging at a local park and musing on the power of nature.
Rachel Hadas: Summer Nights and Days
So far the nights feel lonelier than the days.
In light, the living keep me company,
and memories of voices through the years.
James Crews: Two Poems
Why do we try
to rush delight, strong-arm joy
into busy lives, when so much
beauty already seeds itself beneath
our restless feet?
James Crews: Choosing the Light
Relentless
as the urge that also blooms in us—
to find the things that bring us alive,
and open ourselves fully to them, never
giving up
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Early Morning Considerations After a Night of Rain
Good morning, welcome, new Thursday. I arc
the blankets away. The dog sheds gladness all
around me as war news shrapnels out of NPR.
Jianqing Zheng: The Dog Years of Reeducation (excerpt)
When the sampan glides to shore, the bird lands back on the shoulder of the rowing girl while lotus leaves whisper in the morning sunshine.
Max Graham: Food Forests Aren’t Just Nourishing. They’re Cool.
Trees and edible plants are being planted at churches, schools, street corners, and empty lots across the country to provide free shade and food to all.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: Morning Praise
Praise not God
or fate, but the weeds & leaves that soften
the earth under my steps toward the widening
light
Gary Fincke: The Chernobyl Swallows
In April, near the anniversary Of catastrophe, barn swallows returned, Flying inside the exclusion zone to Nest in the radioactive ruins. Like disciples, the swaddled scientists Marveled. The work crews, … Continue reading
Deborah Bogen: Three poems by Yongbo Ma
…thunder is like a guarantee that everything exists,
that the wine will not sour,
that the season will turn again,
as it always has.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar: To the Marine Fog
Look, I might not have woken up early enough
to watch you hang your rags over the hedge,
or loiter in the yard’s waning night, but I’m here
now — so linger by my window a little.
James Crews: At the Monastery
I want to ask: Would you bow
to the blown-open peony, its petals
strewn like slips of silk in the grass
after last night’s storm?
Chard deNiord: To the Muse
You wakened me to a dream of waking
in which I approached you and sang
your name.
Michael T. Young: How to Survive the End of the World
these strangers random as bits of sea glass
collected and admired
