By KAREN CHASE
See the trace of someone’s hand
in the shorn branches, the tangle
of trees past the flat lawn.
By KAREN CHASE
See the trace of someone’s hand
in the shorn branches, the tangle
of trees past the flat lawn.
At The Common we’re welcoming spring with new poetry by our contributors.
By KAREN CHASE
My windowsill, that skinny altar
above the kitchen sink, helps me
combine death with wind,
and air with birth—
fire, water, time, dirt.