Sunday, November 03, 2019

GUSTS, Number 30, Fall/Winter 2019

bobolinks
skim the hayfields . . .
father never
expected to hear
their songs again


twisted limbs
of driftwood define
the tides . . .
I look more like you
with each passing year


you carry me
across drifts of stars,
our breath
shape-shifting
into northern lights

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