And only where the forest fires have sped,    Scorching relentlessly the cool north lands, A sweet wild flower lifts its purple head,  And, like some gentle spirit sorrow-fed,   It hides the scars wit...

Though it was the end of February, the day was a lazy sort of cold. The sun slipped through the cloud in bursts, reminding the landscape that it was still there, prodding snow piles to relax into puddles and stirring sleeping seeds under the ground. ...

I’m climbing out of this season, fingernails ragged, belly soft. I tuck a stem of dried mint behind my ear to remind myself. Tamiko Beyer, "February" We climb out of seasons with ragged fingernails and soft bellies. I want to suggest a season is...

The poet is in my ear, take notes, take notes, notes, notes, yes, notes. S. Brook Corfman I live with a poet in my ear. I live with a muse in my soul. I live paying attention and taking notes. Sometimes the poet screams telling me to do this o...