Green Hills Literary Lantern




 Winter Landscape




We painted the bedroom wall bright yellow.

When brown age spots grew on the skin of my arms,

we washed them in milk, rolled them in

pansy petals.


Words sprout in today’s rain and clatter like

bells in memory:  fields of yellow mustard,

lichen dripping light in gloomy tunnels of fir,

white mushrooms like plates

scattered in verdant new shoots.


Lightning illuminates our dreams,

I rise in the salt-wave scent,

both of us aware of rocks, how a certain

current, once entered, moves irrevocably.


Sounds of wind, of windows

flexing, pluck of rain’s percussion,

our limbs insinuated into

swimming motions.  I don’t resist,

I don’t pass judgment.


Soil near the back door slopes,

holds to bedrock with swollen digits.

I remember not to step there,

iris roots, sorrel leaves flat,

grow dark melodies.  Chances

everything takes, scary redemption.




Grace Marie Grafton’s poetry won first prize in the annual Bellingham Review contest, and was twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  Her chapbook, Zero, won the Poetic Matrix Press contest.  Her book, Visiting Sisters, was published by Coracle Books.  Poems recently appear in Volt, Edgz, Prism Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, and Her book, Other Clues, just came out from Latitude Press (