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Debut collection of poetry from an award-winning nature writer
Fireflies is a collection of lyrci poems- formal and informal-that seek solace in nature and memory for the heartache of being human.
From children chasing fireflies at night to middle agers chasing lost loves at three in the morning, they trace the compromises we make to make it-the dead mice, cats, fetuses, and loves left in our wakes. And they celebrate the tenuous survival of trees, love, and innocence.
MONARCHS
Monarchs ride fall’s cold fronts south in waves,
warming us in thin orange blankets stitched by a million nearly mindless threads
weaving arabesques bright as autumn leaves.
I too would leave, run with the wind, and wave goodbye to all of this, fly a carpet
over the Appalachians’ parapets,
high above the Mississippi’s swerves,
head south to the Gulf and west to Texas, crossing the Rio in a grander, drier river, through
Chihuahua, Durango, Zacatecas, into Michoacan’s fabled forest firs
and winter where the trees are hung with wealth undreamt by Bogarts mucking gold beneath.
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Debut collection of poetry from an award-winning nature writer
Fireflies is a collection of lyrci poems- formal and informal-that seek solace in nature and memory for the heartache of being human.
From children chasing fireflies at night to middle agers chasing lost loves at three in the morning, they trace the compromises we make to make it-the dead mice, cats, fetuses, and loves left in our wakes. And they celebrate the tenuous survival of trees, love, and innocence.
MONARCHS
Monarchs ride fall’s cold fronts south in waves,
warming us in thin orange blankets stitched by a million nearly mindless threads
weaving arabesques bright as autumn leaves.
I too would leave, run with the wind, and wave goodbye to all of this, fly a carpet
over the Appalachians’ parapets,
high above the Mississippi’s swerves,
head south to the Gulf and west to Texas, crossing the Rio in a grander, drier river, through
Chihuahua, Durango, Zacatecas, into Michoacan’s fabled forest firs
and winter where the trees are hung with wealth undreamt by Bogarts mucking gold beneath.