By Sarah Powell

He asked me,
“Why would you buy flowers?
They will only die.”

“Of course 
they will die. But 
every day until they do,
I will walk into the room and smile because 
they are waiting there 
for me,
drinking water, basking in sun, 
fully and completely
alive.”

By Sarah Powell

Traverse these wild folds
              desolate no more.
See, at the turning of the brook
               awaits another traveler,
               weary on his way.
Awaken, weary heart.
Rejoice to see another
               wandering this twisting road with you.
Here among the vines and thistles
              grow also wild strawberries,
And on the barks of the old crooked trees,
               the moss is soft and green.
“Tell me a story,”
              says one wanderer to another.
“It will be long.”
“We have time.”
So there comes forth a great mystery -
the soul of one
             sifted down to words,
             that it might be handed 
             off to another -
             as a palm-full of soft sand,
             or a perfectly smooth skipping stone.
“There you are,” says the one.
“Thank you,” says the other.
And so they will walk.
Together now they will find the wild strawberries
           beneath the prickly vines.
There at the bending of the brook
           awaits another traveler.
Desolate no more,
           traverse these wild folds.

By Courtney Siebring

The night went dark
when transformers blew,
when all across our city
the mosquito hum of fridges
and fluorescent bulbs hushed.

All shut down
but we switched on,
lit candles,
told secrets,
played our grandparents’ games:
cribbage, spades,
ate softening ice cream.

When I miss you now,
I walk past you in the hall,
down the basement stairs.
I trip the breakers
and come up in the dark
to find you.

By Betsy K. Brown

heat I
our sprinkler at dawn
waves bright fingers of water
toward the stone-dry sky

heat II

baby lemon tree
sleeps beneath her summer tarp
dreams of future fruit

heat III

dark Serrano leaf
drinks the sun like ambrosia
a staid desert god

haboob I

lightning, summer’s script
writes its song across the sky
thunder’s drums reply

haboob II

dusty desert clouds
turn the earth a brick-red haze
finally, the rain

haboob III

shards of palms litter
storm-swept streets. Nearby, roots-up,
torn aleppo pine

birds I

knocking from inside
a lone saguaro cactus
in a hole, two eyes

birds II

sprouting sunflowers—
just three grew; remaining soil
pocked with pecks of birds

birds III

hens nip at the weeds
foraging sweet ants to eat
spurning bags of feed

distance  I

postcard in our box,
ragged from a rugged trip—
a worn desert dove

distance II

daughter through the phone
shouts softly, “wish I were there”
Grand Canyon echoes

By Brendon Sylvester

And after the horas, l’chaims, the bright wine poured,
the urge with gleaming eyes to feast a little more,
the tender nestling while the revelry remains,
the dancing will draw out, legs begin to strain
from turning, paining one another, giving help
against each other’s weakness, making new wounds well—
then your wedding-guests will circle you around
again and dance to help your help, for love abounds
in dancing within dancing within the greater dancing still
of the Bridegroom and his bride, that, rising, fills
all things. When, at the end, joints stiffen, muscles groan,
and you are drawing near to your eternal home,
remember the dance that you are starting now
joins with the Dance that’s making all things new.

By Betsy K. Brown

Dear child (if you happen to exist 
within my waiting womb), I wonder if
we’ll take more trains together, you and me,
and you’ll look out the window, too. For now,
my passenger, there is no way to peer
out of your little car where you might sleep
if you are real, no way to know your route,
or if you’ll exit at the proper time.

I see myself on a windowless train,
careering toward a city or a crash,
a form just fetus-small compared to earth,
still sitting, growing, waiting for a door
to open, let me out to breathe, to feel,
to think, and hence to know that I am real.