Finding Her Feet in a Rough Spring
by Mercedes Lawry
Pastoral and less than full, moon,
her grief, coddled as it is in grass fields.
She could hide and watch bees, wait for stings
to stop her heart. Amen, amen, mark
of a plethora of days in chalky dust.
Ruins of only minor interest
with weeds between stones,
statuary lies, historical falsehoods.
She read a dozen stories in the course
of several hours and became calm.
Wide open spaces offer comfort,
not much of a worthy word, closer
to oatmeal, pillow, broth.
Nothing you might apply to a crow
or his cawing that always sounds
perturbed and she likes him for it.
Gyroscope Review 12
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