by Ann B. Day The last of summer lingers still, captured in a golden field beyond the leafless woods. I’ve come upon it quite unexpectedly! Gone are summer sounds of humming bees and katydids. They have fled the early frosts of fall. Instead, a gentle breeze stirs the graying goldenrod, and sun-warmed soil and yellowContinue reading “One Last Sweet Breath”
Category Archives: Poetry
Sugarloaf Descent
by Parker Towle Low trees and scrub yield to precipitous scree slope, an irregular ladder of stone blocks with no bushes or tree trunks to cling to. Switchbacks are few. Cooling breeze above yields to flushing heat and dripping sweat. We tumble down through a sparse gnarl of trees with openings to view their topsContinue reading “Sugarloaf Descent”
May Day, 2013
by Martha Deborah Hall I open all my windows and doors, blast Bocelli singing con te partiro. Let’s dance around our Maypoles, let the breeze sashay in. Driveway snow has been ferreted. Dogwood blossoms graciously undulate in the yard. I log off my computer. May’s file is alive. I find myself humming, “I’ll see youContinue reading “May Day, 2013”
Morning Delivery
by Ann. B. Day In the four A.M. dusk of a summer morning, my sleep slides away into sounds that sift into our upstairs bedroom window: tires turning on gravel a truck’s muffled idle, boots treading on wood planks of back porch steps, glass clinking glass. A moment later, more boot steps on wood, scrunchContinue reading “Morning Delivery”
Spring Thaw at River’s Edge
by Parker Towle When I stop and open the window a chill rises over the wheels and surrounds my head. The river snaps its tail swelling the surface and rocking blocks of ice. Across the boil fingerless hands emerge and turn the flood plain into ponds, muddying soil around yellowed stumps of corn.
Mud Season
A poem and photograph by Yvona Fast
Gray Day
A poem by by Theresa Hickey
Embarking
by Parker Towle Fog rose off the still lake like wisps of flame. Two hundred feet from shore we were on instruments, in trust to a compass resting on a bed roll: an hour with no direction, no idea, swallowed by the other, not in dark but rather in a vague receding white. When itContinue reading “Embarking”
New England Memories 