Posted inPoetry

L’HEURE BLEUE

Hour of approach, hour of silence.The brother sets down his axe in the woods.The sister sets down her glasses on the tableand waits in the moment before prayerthat throbs from the tolling of the bell.Shadows swallow shadows in the frigid air.Hour of departure.Ledgers toted, windows shuttered.Late he

Posted inPoetry

Mary of Sorrows

We do not in our countryniche you at corners,crossroads, highway shrines.But in Karen’s face as she talks of her sonwhose pain will not redeem the world;as Marguerita, whose eldest will notsurvive her; in Sylvie, whose childlearned all his letters in his second yearand by age four had been con

Gift this article