Cool Weather’s Coming Soon

Cold air’s started to creep in in the mornings, and people seem to respond accordingly by folding themselves back into the dresser with the summer sheets.  The goldenrod’s begun to crop up in thick swathes, pushing up the thoughts of what it means to leave Buffalo and regard home in past tense. And the Sassafras,…

Precious

Life is precious. Practice love, love your people: be willing to Move through landscapes With or without them. Hold reverence for time; Respect there are no timelines and that love doesn’t acknowledge now or forever. Instead, trust all things come back someday, No matter how long it takes your people To forgive or come back…

September for the Sycamores

    This morning the sycamores are peeling back their bark and revealing a dull white skin.  Above, their iron arms are stretched out with thousands of pallid green and scorched-tip leaves holding on. The foliage is still thick, and I can only see glimpses of the sun from the ground. Little by little, however,…

Tips for Drying Goldenrod

    Tips for Drying Goldenrod By Karen Guenther-Attea 1. Wake up, Pray 2. Clip your flowers midday after the dew has dried off. On a windy day, I suppose it doesn’t matter. 3. The boughs don’t need to be too tight, oh but that is too tight. Well, maybe it will be okay. 4….

A Run Down Beuhler’s Hill

        I don’t know where it comes from, that empathic or intutitive connection to the other worlds.  Do witches and seers just happen like an oddity, by chance and without reason within a narrative? I’m not necessarily calling myself a witch, maybe witchy, at times but I have been curious.  My dear…

The Loving Honesty of Heartbreak (in 5 poems)

I won’t act like I know what love is or write so certainly of it.  I know I have, and do often think of it, but so far every grand epiphany reminds me how vast of a concept love is.  I can speak of heartbreak and the beautiful breaking down the parts of ourselves to…

Later Down the Road

Take the road Down to the end of the drive There’ll be an ivy-grown house where I know things keep slow   Where a kitchen settles for eggs and toast, And old news keeps the basement full,   Where the houseplants fill up the windowsills To watch the seasons change, singing mute songs   With…