When I asked Robert Wynne to join me as co-editor of a new poetry anthology, his immediate response was When do we start? Only
this morning, the pond looks like marble. Rose and charcoal dissolving to dove, to guava, rouge. Only mallards pushing holes in the glass, so
no swath of light, no smell of warm wood shavings. A rain-coming scent. Last leaf in wind. Walnuts on the deck bleeding ebony. I
for Lynda Hull “Today everything was glazed with ice after a brief thaw then a plunge in temp. So the news was full of