What can mangroves dowhen the clouds grumbleand the sky short-circuitsand starts spewing ragged sparks?Their arms are too heavyto cover their heads; their feettoo bound by roots to run, theyface the executioner's black hoodbetween jagged flashes of fright.No wonder their...

It’s the red lips,rouged cheeks,the curled black hairfalling on perfect neckand shoulders,long bare legsstraddling the chairin the boudoirthat makes me restmy chin on top my handswhich themselves are resting on the handle of my cane.There’s no ardent urge, no...

Woebegone is such a wonderful wordI should put it in a poembut the only bedraggled spectacle hereis made of spent sunflowers and deadblack-eyed-Susans. Woebegone makes methink of a woman, tall and lean, face morose,her slump a sign of obvious...

Woods That Cape Breton Doesn't Know(after Elizabeth Bishop)Sunday morning.Once the bus rolls past Guymon,trailing a plumeof blue-gray exhaust that followsalong like a stray dog, there's nothing—you're insidethe handle of the pan.Not a single white-clad steeplecan be seen anywhere across...