
One last effort to
find the shore
before the
Chesapeake Bay Bridge,
we turn toward
Cape Charles.
Two miles. What will we find?
A longer trip, for one.
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One last effort to
find the shore
before the
Chesapeake Bay Bridge,
we turn toward
Cape Charles.
Two miles. What will we find?
A longer trip, for one.
Continue reading

heart-shaped spots,
sun spots
flit, flutter and dance
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You should sing the blues,
but your music’s too sweet,
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Creeks sing to wake the frogs.
New leaves whisper, waking the wind.
Old, crooked trees have their own
music, a quiet unfurling of
wandering woodland notes.
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American lady
butterflies
charm and
delight
every child.
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Waves of heat bake golden sand,
splashed by frothy waves. Gulls
and sandpipers dot grassy dunes.
A long, tall drink comes to hand.
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Used with Permission of Resa Swork

Purple party hats prickle
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Snow showers
bury
spring flowers
deep Continue reading

Anyone who falters to a stop,
mid breath, and
lets her words breathe,
then echo,
then die,
is a poet.

Fresco at University of St. Thomas in Minneapolis Used by Permission of Laura Purdie Salas
The fairy tale, the prosaic,
the absurd and the divine,
find their way into myth,
story, art and rhyme.