Just Mirages
by Gene Hopman-Whipple
The ramifications of the beat of a drum,
are unknown to the butterfly
yet constant in their subtle ferocity.
Pounding, pounding, pounding, a gust with its roots in an eightbillion-year-old solar wind.
A train coming in, on it,
7 o’clock express route down University.
She’s blown off course and wondering…
Didn’t there used to be a wetland here?
Notes of strings translated softly
into ripples coursing through my glass of Bordeaux.
Just mirages of the notes
I can’t hear.
Just like meditations
of blurry nights and frigid mornings wondering.
The reflections of Christmas lights from the
windows of the gray towers whisper
maybe she never will.
Didn’t there used to be a cracked and weathered beam here
in my little corner?
The Day is Bright by Savanna Richter
Beats and steps and mysteries.
Female
by Jane Dahlgren