Issue #33, June, 2003 : -- -1 -2 -3 -4 -5 6 -7 -8 -9 -10 -11 -12
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Linda Monacelli-Johnson: Vigil

28 Though I don't even get a glimpse, I recognize a kingfisher's call-- the dry rattle-- as I make my way eagerly through overgrown willows to the shady juniper poetry-room. If I had let the octopus arms of the woods slow me down, would I have seen the halcyon? After I lie a few minutes by the river, a dragonfly comes over from its cove but doesn't stay long enough for me to see what color. Hours later I hike back and stop to rest in the ample shadow of an old ponderosa. Inhaling the healing scent of a bit of sage, I sit on a ledge under the pine, in the incense of sun-broiled needles. Absent-minded, I roll the sage into a sphere, then spot a cicada shell-- the veined wings transparent, glistening as if wet. I pry death off a sprig of sage and embalm the insect husk by tenderly filling it with my gray-green pearl. I carry the corpse in my palm.

Galisteo Basin (detail) Whitman Johnson full image

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Issue #33, June, 2003 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.