Granny Woman dances
under breeze-shivering branches,
her skirts a waltz of wings,
mouth full of stories.
She has emptied her house of men.
The sky is a stoic blue, hard as a marble, with little wimpy clouds that carry nothing more than a few regrets from a dying winter. We’re here, right on the precipice of a season.
On the calendar we see the bold square, marking the number 21 in March, marking our hope, our deep breath— 21, our emerald prolepsis, our brain’s fast synapse between withdrawal … Continue reading