Ocean of Storms We were born to the winter, cold moods and gusts. Why do we love lingering ruin? We know the damage runs deep. Cold moods and gusts interrogate the atmosphere. We know the damage runs deep. The rain has started again, and the thunder. Interrogate the atmosphere, smoke-steeped mystery, tell me. The rain has started again, and the thunder. What heavy thing fell from that height? Smoke-steeped mystery, tell me why does the moon bear a stain? What heavy thing fell from that height? Why is the Ocean of Storms still there? Why does the moon bear a stain, a wound from some cosmic impact? Why is the Ocean of Storms still there, why not a healing? A wound from some cosmic impact, the line is thin between dark and its positive twin. Why not a healing? The answer is simple. The line is thin between dark and its positive twin. Why do we love lingering ruin? The answer is simple. We were born to the winter. Since the World is Treacherous, You Dress Yourself in Mourning After Sappho You cower like a broken laurel tree under a cold sun, and the sweetness of spring rains is more than this slender moment allows. With your companions still to awaken, traveler, I leave a word to save you. I scarcely listened when you spoke of a soul beloved in a time so far removed. Such now is my worry that you don’t want to arrive kindly in a place that can forgive you. You’ll get there anyway, beautiful wanderer, in spite of everything, and the clothes you wear will give a name to your grief.
Carolyn Adams’ poetry and art have appeared in Panoply, Amsterdam Quarterly, Visitant, Bryant Literary Review, and Trajectory, among other journals and anthologies. Nominated for a Pushcart and for Best of the Net, she is a staff editor for Mojave River Review, and a poetry editor for VoiceCatcher.