Lying in the warmth of the feeble sun

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Lying in the warmth of the feeble sun here where I belong

I revel in the tranquillity of this special place and wonder

If I should pierce the glimmering surface headlong.

 

I wish this serenity were broken this summer

By the chance to glimpse the wondrous moose;

I crave the chance to see that majestic wanderer.

 

But this thought leads me astray and I abuse

The pleasures given to me by this birdsong

And the breathing forest the season has set loose.

-I.L.

daffs some think you daft

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daffs some think you daft,
as I once did with idle eyes
now full of your dance
moon of milk ahead,
trembling herrings of the lake
seen by wild she-eyes
the crab crawls out of
the hackberry — rabbit-toothed
buds buries in leaves
spring is drenched in green
I mourn that it came so fast
and miss what I see
apple blossoms snow
mid-spring undressing
fleshly bulbs, hubs of promise
in loops elfish vapour
mounts at the edge of the wood
now- a grey chimney
pie warm by the fire
with the fir where swallows nest
across my kitchen
brother cottage birthed
from a rugged lap of gills,
nooks — a lasting bond
How many layers has the world?
bugs threading through grass —
grass at the foot of the tree —
birds darkling in purple boughs —
horizons waiting to soak up the sun of dawn —
the airplane’s white whisper awakens the wish for
—  a shooting star
-E.S.

Abuelita Esmeralda

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And thus through many seasons’ space/This little Island may survive/But Nature, though we mark her not, Will take away — may cease to give. -Floating Island, Dorothy Wordsworth
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Quilt made by Dorothy

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The rain keeps on falling and the river keeps on rising,

I can’t tell if it’s the women in the church singing,

Or the echo of this river ringing.

The corrugated steel roof makes the rain sound like the endless clip of an AK-47,

Sometimes it really is tumultuous gunfire and others just God’s desire.

The river is climbing, I swear it’s beneath me,

But it slowly fades away, the heavens on its knees.

And after this cacophonous flood, I’m sure now it’s the faithful that are singing,

Sunrise hymns in tune with the roosters and xolotas.

Even amidst these off-key voices, I hear one that rhymes true and never leaves me blue.

As the water lessens and the puddles remain,

The green of the jungle reminds me I’m sane.

After a silence comes the pat, pat, pat of each morning,

Corn ground pure by mortar and pestle,

The daily routine with which she must wrestle.

Pat, pat, pat, pat and one more tortilla,

Abuelita Esmeralda and an ave maría

-C.H.

Last summer, I went to the little wood next to my house.

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Last summer, I went to the little wood next to my house.
I waited until the beginning of the evening
when the sun gently began to set.
I took a ball and went to pick the blackberries.
I enjoyed it despite the thorns’ bruises I knew I would get.
The bees where buzzing around.
I started picking up the blackberries.
There were so many. Some really dark and ripe
and others going from a light pink to a vibrant red.
I knew I would come back in a couple of days.
It was really quite. There were just the mountains,
on which the sun was setting, surrounding me.
The same old ones. They have always been by my side.
Picking the blackberries I was thinking
of the jam and pies I would bake
still facing the mountains from the kitchen’s window.

-E.R.

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