For Cousteau

by Laura Parker Roerden We protect what we love, an explorer once told us. But of what love did he mean? The love for a flower or that of a son? The love for a rock held safe in our palm, or that for a steeple? The love of a farmer for a seed or ofContinue reading “For Cousteau”

The Nests

by Laura Parker Roerden Go to the nests, she said. They are no longer hidden by the leaves. They are round, and have born tiny birds now strong enough to fly. You’ll know them by their shape, like hands now wrung. But the nests are high, she answered, and sway in the wind. Do not beContinue reading “The Nests”

The Swallows in Flight

by Laura Parker Roerden I. Every night now the swallows fall and rise together over the hayfield, slicing the sky as if skinning it open to feed on insects. I can imagine DaVinci must have seen them. His drawings of flying machines spoke of curved elegance; of momentum that turns planes of existence upside, down.Continue reading “The Swallows in Flight”

Morning Poem

Reflections on Spring’s Shoulder by Laura Parker Roerden Winter’s frozen fingers still clutch the ground, unwilling to yield to a muddy grave. Some years are like that: everything worn to the bone, promise blunt and fragmented. This morning has no choice but to rise clumsily against a thick attempt at erasure. At best, a hole had been rubbedContinue reading “Morning Poem”

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