Prayer of the Fields
In withering arms of darkness,
dew trying to pass for rainwater,
beaten terrain attempts to rise,
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Katherine’s Coffeehouse
Storefront
By Katherine Gotthardt In the dream, my bed is cemented in a storefront, and I, no control over window treatments or shades, curl in the corner of strangers’ eyes, try to sleep. When I wake, I wonder what that was all about. Was it because I furniture shopped with my adult daughter last week? Checked
Light Discussion
Freedom means choosing your light, picking which part of the day means most, rising with mourning doves and dew, or celebrating the moon’s evolution. What becomes of the sunrise, you writers already know: Daytime. Clockwork. Clouds and showers, temperatures based on the Earth’s hot moods. Evening feels so much smoother, starlight beaming you
3 a.m.
By Katherine Gotthardt Often now, I think about death, usually at 3 a.m. when I wake to the thin skin of all that separates us. They say that’s when the dead speak, spirits and the living reside in one world, and anyone you miss is a but a pinpoint’s distance to your fingertips.
Cardinal
By Katherine Gotthardt Mornings, I want to write deeply, delve into the beak of the cardinal by my window, pull his routine song into my poem, make something more beautiful than myself. But it doesn’t happen. Instead, the day gets swallowed, sits in a full belly where hours and years swell into reminders
