—after Emily Dickinson At the edge of a furrowed field, everything turning over beneath us, how it sways atop the tallest redwood without falling,
How does one say what if without reproach? —Claudia Rankine Remember how sweet the new firs smelled? Their soft spring pompoms pliant and cool
Walking with my husband and our daughters, my aunt, eight years younger than my mother, with her husband, and youngest daughter. I’m behind her,