Writer@ 9600 ft
for my mother 1929-2020
Already the moon pales, half-cast above fields, shifting, done.
The darkness that comes speaks, weaves half-words
of the timorous blown cottonwoods, conducts quiet bird sound,
the long sad cry of wind,
Of suburban dogs, of geese tilting toward silver water.
I stand half in it, in the half-light of barns,
Of remembered porches, half-voices of my mother and father,
speaking to me still
Kathryn Winograd is a Colorado poet, essayist, and photographer. Her work includes Air Into Breath, a Colorado Book Award winner and alternate for the Yale Series, Flying Beneath the Dog Star: Poems from the Pandemic, a semi-finalist for the Finishing Line Press 2020 Open Chapbook Contest, and Slow Arrow: Unearthing the Frail Children, a Bronze Medalist in Essay for the 2020 Independent Publisher Book Awards. Her essays have been published in numerous journals including River Teeth and Terrain.org and her poetry in places as diverse as The New Yorker and Cricket Magazine for Children. https://kathrynwinograd.com/ View all posts by Kathryn Winograd
Subscribe now to keep reading and get access to the full archive.
Kathryn Winograd
A very haunting poem and a haunting image above it.
LikeLike
thank you
LikeLike
What a beautiful photograph and attendant words, lovely tribute to your mother. I know she is appreciating it, wherever she may be.
LikeLike
I think so too
LikeLike
This is beautiful, Kathy. My mother died in 2016 and I still grieve, and hear her voice. 💔
Neva Gronert
>
LikeLike
I know how you are feeling, Neva.
LikeLike