A thin powder glazes all the logs and fallen limbs—white ships on a brown sea. The high-pitched whistles of waxwings passing overhead.


  1. Miniatures

    The dog is scratching at the door
    to be let out. The window sash
    begs to be lifted, the walls want to toss

    their shadowed murals out into the yard.
    The water wants to drain away
    from the yellowed tub. Do you hear

    the high-pitched whistle of waxwings
    passing overhead, the lower registers of air
    wound through a labyrinth of trees? The child

    creases the paper once and once again–
    There are mountains and valleys, somewhere
    a sea; chalk-white sails that one can hardly tell

    apart from the crested foam of waves.

    ~ Luisa A. Igloria
    03 24 2011

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