Mothers and daughters.
from Twenty Weeks / by Catherine Tufariello
In every weather,
Wisdom and grace guard you together
And shelter you from harm and storm,
Who now lie heedless, dreamless, warm,
Curled in your dark honeycomb
Asleep, exactly halfway home.
Fathers and daughters.
from The Writer / by Richard Wilbur
It is always a matter, my darling,
Of life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished you before, but harder.
Mothers and sons. And, ongoing mentor, friend, teaching us, one by one, to dive into the wreck and to grasp something worth bringing to light.
from The Farm / by William Logan
The kerosene lamp had gone out.
There was a ragged Bible in this dream,
open to Isaiah.
Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.
from The Disasters / by Sabrina Orah Mark
“What are you doing in there, my little shipwreck?” “Commodifying my disasters,” said Beatrice. “That’s nice,” said Walter B. “Will you need some batteries?” “No,” said Beatrice. “Better save the batteries for the children.”
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