Nearing Leaving Fitting a needle Into a blossom takes time Hummingbird’s patience. ~ S.K. Orr

Stay, Clouds Stay, clouds, mute the day Boil and shift the canopy Then pull the night’s cord. ~ S.K. Orr

Two Things He stands some yards removed from the grocery store’s Whishing door. From his endless supply, He offers a nod and a smile to every face Who passes him, whispering a greeting if He is not absorbed in purring pulses of A mountain song. He sings the ancient tunes His papaw taught him, keening into the parking Lot’s heavy air, refusing to let The past be past, and calling to the bloodlines Of shoppers and clerks and deliverymen in their rushings. The two things at his shoes are still and silent, Sentries of need, the tattered cap with its Few coins and bills, and the elderly feist, Curled on…

Tenant Glance When I first came to this place (or did It come to me?), it was chewed, open, Denuded, with no whisper of slow stride On its hide. But now it has curled In on me, reclaiming the little areas I’ve  marked, implacable in its green and curved Gaze, knowing it can outlast me. ~ S.K. Orr

The Star Mote I parked beneath a favorite tree, stepped up onto the yielding mulch and reached for a leaf to touch, my morning ritual before submitting to the electronic cage. When I stroked the lowest leaf, I saw within its curl a crimson speck of a spider mite,  on a web no larger than a nickel. Cupped in the sun’s red ray, he seemed a mote from that distant star itself. I spoke to him, and why is it foolish to suppose he didn’t fathom my intent? I left him to the day and his destruction of the leaf. ~ by S.K. Orr

Accompanying my dog this morning, I stopped and stared at the moon as if rooted like one of the trees through which she stared down. Does she really control the tides? I do not think so. Does she affect a woman’s cycle? Perhaps. Does she whisper to the crazed ones in their scrawled rooms, confirming their fears and prodding them on in their muttered plots? I suspect she does. Is her light really cooler than the air through which she travels to us, floating on birdbaths and in the hollow stumps of long-dead oaks? Science might tell us. One thing for me is not a question: she has a voice,…

In Volumes I come to my books defenseless, willing to be altered by them, even if I am hesitant to be altared. Docile as acolyte to master, I approach them. No longer seeking the fast technique, I accept my new permanent status as a plodder, taking more time to manage even a slight incline. Many’s the time I have tacked my sails in the wake of a novel, or gorged on rich fare laid on the table of a short story. So now if a bit more discerning, not in quality but in content which has the potential to jam a stick in my spokes, I want my last phase…