Contributions by Janice D. Soderling
Blackbird at Dusk
bright beak
full-throated song
purling pouring and we
stopped mid-sentence, one and all, to
listen
Home for the Aged
Sharp as a trumpet blast,
the April sun
jump-starts the wintry men
to bleary, twitchy motion.
Awkwardly they follow
their sallow, long-nailed fingers
out into the open air,
walk meticulously around the block
as if rehearsing a newly-written play,
memory…
Nothingness
Calm yourself, my child, it is gone.
What you see are the remains: the woodland, the smoke, the retreating flames.
Somewhere, perhaps, in a far-away country
the sky is bluer and roses cling to a stone wall,
perhaps there are palm trees and a milder wind—