Presence 70

by the way forget me nots

John Hawkhead

filtered light
the mother oak’s
mossy folds

— Anne Elise Burgevin¬†

another death —
crows hop across
the frozen ground

Jon Hare

in the wheelchair
he leans back
to look into her eyes
the ceiling
rushing past

— Mark Gilbert

A secret cabal
of rusting horse troughs, truck beds,
and broken silos
keep a mystery vigil
in the old woods

— Kevin Browne

Touch of the Wild

Not so much the blue remembered hills but more the green remembered grasses. The under the hot sun of a childhood summer grasses. The tea in the garden while the grownups sit talking on their upright chairs kind of grasses . The moist evasive as the froglets that leap through my astounded fingers grasses.

writing a haiku
how the words slip
away and away 

Diana Webb