Having Made My Beds
by Joannie Stangeland

Under March skies, palette shifting white to blue, I arm with steel, rusty teeth, hack, attack the thickets— no prince in search of kisses. From one stick—sucker— grows a rose, cane and thorn a bitter plenty, brief bud. Oh, cloud of my neglect—fierce bluster surges to there and here, battle for light, a tangle. More … Continue reading Having Made My Beds
by Joannie Stangeland