Oh the myrtle so bright. The eyeslip, the bee.
Still and know. And how sad I am, and for days
on end. In 1962, they burned the village to the ground.
Your pots and pans, your baskets, your planks where the sun
rays touched first. I gather up the rhizoids. When I am brave enough
to walk past again, I shall place a quill earring in the shade.
In the book of sweet grasses, write your name.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 2.
See all items about Caroline Goodwin