In Old Growth The planet and its forest pivot far enough for the sun to stream between silent giants. Light switches on. Bracken and cedar boughs are serving plates of yellow gold. Salal dazzles like tables of silver jewelry. A heart has to fill with something like joy or gratitude. The forest asks for nothing. In its tall, rooted silence it withstands us. Beneath the soil, its network will never even speak of our passing.
Death of a Carpenter It’s raining nails as if the sky is cleaning shop. It’s raining my dead husband’s hair as well, the hair I shook from the pillow, clumps of it. An unaccustomed clatter from the clouds, cans of screws and bolts, old saws discarded. Listen. Is there a sound as unfinished projects fade? Can you hear a life lifting, just a hint of music, a white vapor in its going.
Deborrah Corr is a long-time resident of Seattle where she taught kindergarten for twenty-eight years. Currently, she is digging as deeply as she can into the joy and craft of poetry. She also quilts, reads and enjoys the outdoors where she can be seen watching and sometimes talking with birds. Her work has appeared in Crosswinds Poetry Journal, The Halcyon, and Raven Chronicles.