The moon casts a shadow
on my bed.
The cat scratches at the door.
It isn’t mine—
the cat or the door.
Splayed across my bed,
an ancient dream
just vaguely glossy.
Author: Lisa Marie
A Sort of Shadow
Sang Real
Man Avoiding Death
In the well of his eyes
a songbird drowning,
his last note shaking
the earth like an aftershock
Carrying a cane,
he mocks old age
and then beats him with it.
The various compounds in his
organs like chasms of
darkness sewn up into life.
In his neighborhood
the children shirk their
playful duties
break all the rules of youth
by filing taxes
and reading Schopenhauer.
In the bushes,
a sharpened surprise
awaits him.
Shadow and Sun
Resin in Foil
Homemaking
The serene beauty of creating and maintaining a home.
Ghost Glass
Lectio Divina Book
Easters
The cloth Christ
hangs from the
peg on the wall.
My voice is in a vault.
God gave me the gift,
and he holds the key.
If I ever speak again,
my voice will be an Easter.
I am cold.
God’s son will warm me.
Lent falls off my life
Like a damp towel.
The vault door opens.
My singing rises in
praise of the risen.
Miniature Moon 