by Martin Willitts Jr My mother’s age-ravaged memory before she passed away. What a strange phrase, “passed away,” as if floating off. How odd to be less mentioned over time. Winds come; winds go. Winds blow the moon away. Winds blow the yellow off the finches, scatters leaves, memory, sorrow blows them all into a
by Martin Willitts Jr August trails across the sky, rippling shadows. It is finished raining. The quiet cold remains, trees dazed by the sudden changes, ripen with crisp eminence. Juncos quiver on maple branches. Soon, September’s wingspan will darken and lengthen into drizzle-chills. Already, the clutch of winter berry and red holly berries begin their
by Martin Willitts Jr A dream fish flounders in my arms, light glints off its scales like Brahams’ Lullaby. I throw it back into the memory lake, but its weight still lying solidly in my arms is my son at birth. Trees dangle their fall leaves as bait on fishing lines, a mere loon’s cry