Crystal water
as still as Narcissus’s pond,
surrounding spruce trees
cast a flawless image
with winter air crisps
thy morning breath,
ghost-grey fog
hovers
the mirror-like
lake.
About the Creator
Karen Chapero
I am a poet and fiction writer with a poem published in my English department's literary magazine called the Pacific Review. Check out more poetry and fiction written by me on my personal blog http://www.the21stage.com.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munsona day ago in Fiction
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