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 “Weather is a sense of nature.     Poetry is a sense.” 

   Wallace Stevens

  Poetry of Travel, Poetry of Place

Writing helps us to process what we're learning and open ourselves to insight.


Reading aloud moves words through our  bodies by way of our breath, vocal cords, ears, so to deepen a physical experience.



   I wince. In reflex, my left hand shields my eyes

   against wing snap, against the urge to stop 

   for a flock on the highway, muttering recollections… 


   parents launched by a car that filled the rearview 

   mirror. The news of their departure from this life 

   soon feathered from summer radios on the half hour. 


   This tinted windshield raises invisible eddies. 

   A flight of pigeons spreads skyward with red feet. 

   Again birds will cluster on roadsides, settle in eaves. 


   Were I a latter-day Pandora unlocking and releasing 

   Misfortunes' rush from a sprung box of myth, I'd note

   they turn to feed on us, not on insect, fruit, seed.


   Hope beguiles us yet again to open lids. What’s inside 

   may be a gift—another heart to hold up to all ills—

   or a crush greater than any other, the cries as bodies 


   shatter safety glass, and, after....You’ve heard 

   Hope’s whisper, its lift releasing secrets. 

   Here escape's a blur upward, and surrounds us


   as we speak. Wing-fanned, we race against what is 

   unavoidable, like wind, or shadow, or the next tick 

   of the blood’s clock, as though luck itself had wings.

   first published in The Examined Life Journal

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