To the Ghost Of Humid Nights
by Mary Moore

You’re so light, sister bird-foot, you gust and whistle up hill and down the side I can’t quite see, where the ridges resurrect the mist. Days, the woods gather the warm and humid cool sets loose, gray-blue pearls a girl might wear or be, sway and drape, slow-dance the ridges mother. Sister who was, then … Continue reading To the Ghost Of Humid Nights
by Mary Moore

To the Miscarried Child, Van Gogh’s “Irises” At Arles
by Mary Moore

The irises aren’t eyed, but tongued: the three bearded sepals droop, pant, loll among the splayed jade-green blades, while behind the jumble of tilted flowers, a bud like a bird’s head with two white eye spots eyes us, hybrid, half plant, half animal, like the foam-formed almost human shapes we imagine in Turner’s turbulent seas: … Continue reading To the Miscarried Child, Van Gogh’s “Irises” At Arles
by Mary Moore