The owl bit hard and would not let go.

Daughter remember who came before us, that our liberties were, by burning protest won, we must shape our futures…

Beneath a large flapping crow was a small raccoon dashing across the street.

All the mothers down through time - I was now connected to them.

Poems, like teenagers, want a life of their own.

It was his clothing, packed into a plastic hospital bag, that broke me out of shock.