Ann Arbor Review
INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
WHO COULD POSSIBLY
Enjambment is to poetry
what syncopation is to music,
a chapbook to a book
what a poem is to prayer.
So who could detect
what would be missing?
Who could possibly know
what it is that I covet?
My sadness has stolen the beauty
from the spectrum, left ashes in its stead--
dark blackberry brambles,
poison mushrooms, chokecherries.
Outside my window, a bird is singing.
Her sound reverberates
in the springtime air. Blossom
thrives like grace notes, crowned with fermatas.
The room rocks with azure light.
A double rainbow comes pouring in,
and still, all the world offers me
Helen Losse, Winston-Salem, North Carolina
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