We live near two small lakes with a causeway between them. The banks fill with wild berries every year. The bears come, as well as every kind of bird and snake. I caught this in “Nothing could eat all the berries between the lakes,” a sonnet included in the recent World of Flavors issue of Crab Orchard Review.
My father loved taking walks: on Long Island as a child, in southern Illinois on our farm, in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado where he retired, and in Arkansas where his life ended. He gave this love to me. “All One” – a sonnet full of walking – appears in the latest Louisville Review.
“Current” and “Interstellar Dust” appear in the latest New England Review. These poems exist because of my cousin Barbara. You are still with us.
“While the wren sings, the heron flying across the lake” – another sonnet of sorts – appears in the latest issue of Waccamaw.
“Contact Metamorphism,” “Articulation,” “The Town Opened a Wide Mouth of Fire,” and “Fingertips of Rose” find good space in the latest issue of Tupelo Quarterly.