Jul/Aug 2001  •   Poetry


by Wendy Howe


For you, twilight falls
shy and gray-winged
on the widow ledge—

a wren
whose throat is splashed
by moonlight.

His song echoes
the faint pulse of leaves
shivering from dew

and laments
the distance between us.

For me, the sun is still out
licking grass
to a succulent green.

Its scent
pervades my skin
as if the longest whisper
of your voice were clipped

and tucked breast-deep
by wind

under the blue shadow
of my slip.