Harry Newman

this is not the woodsand wildlife is nottwo chipmunks scamperingacross the sidewalkthe trees stand herein landscaped disordershrugging leaves withseasoned indifferenceapproximating natureI tell myself as birdsthe real ones notpigeons or sparrowsdart between branchesyet even the grassseems untame . . . . Continue Reading »

for Wendell Berry I see the trees you’ve seen and known poised in mute witness the baled hay hunched like insatiable livestock gnawing its way back to the earth the river muttering madly its secrets swallowed under the highway you’ve seen the paths I see between furrows turning the soil . . . . Continue Reading »