Leaves fall like confetti. In gusts,
they twist and turn. The hawksbill geranium
we planted in July is still blooming in October,
each tendril ending in a violet flower.
Low to the ground, nodding softly
in the wind, it never seems to struggle.
Under a weightless rain,
in dress uniforms of dark blue,
the firemen marched in solemn step
to the mournful accompaniment
of the “Emerald Society Pipes and Drums.”
Wreaths were laid at the monument,
and a bell struck for every man lost
in the last year.
Our dead are always with us,
not only at anniversaries.
They keep watch over us,
they chide and encourage us,
if we let them.
It was a day like any other day,
the mist hung low to the ground
and hid the hills.
The wind blew and the rain spilled,
and the sun broke through.
And the wet grass waved,
as majestic clouds floated past,
like time, hurrying
in one direction.
The migrating bird that can’t keep up
gets left behind.
Bathe me in golden light,
heal my shattered bones.
Poet, fiction writer, journalist, and critic Anne Whitehouse’s books include poetry collections The Surveyor’s Hand (Compton Press), Blessings and Curses (Poetic Matrix Press), One Sunday Morning (Finishing Line Press), The Refrain (Dos Madres Press), Bear in Mind (Finishing Line Press), and Fall Love (novel). Recent poetry and fiction publications include The View from Here, Art from Art (anthology), Istanbul Poetry Review, Pain and Memory and Being Human: Call of the Wild (anthologies), riverbabble, Yale Journal of Humanities in Medicine, and others. She lives in New York City.
Allison Goldin is an artist living in California. Her work is a collection of spontaneous drawings from the imagination. The most common link throughout her art are the semi-recognizable creatures scattered amongst and bringing together the surrounding doodles.