Threnody

these wasted places—

no verdant cornfields singing,

threnody of dust

Early

too early

the white rose unfurls

then freezes

Imagine the sound,

wee wren, of one hand clapping

to silence your song.

cicada

still annoying me

at midnight

Children, hold my hand

as we cross the busy street

to the promised land.

Wolf Moon,

are you howling

again?

Opening her eyes,

she sees not one, but seven,

gaunt and starving cows.