by Madeleine Roberts From the first spring we learned enough of mauve and purple petalstuff, wisteria curled in peacock plumes, and Eden’s honeysweet perfumes, to know that dying never fits the ground, and though the earth forgets the sound of its revival song, the winter cannot linger long.
by Madeleine Busse Streets stained white with salt Like bleached desert bones Nakedly reflect cold light, Bordering grass brown from snow now gone. On my walk to class, the sun emerges: The wind still slices, but the sky is blue Windows once grey glow with midmorning Stone walls catch rays and become warm to sit
by Madeleine Roberts When the rocks cried out for weeping I knelt to the ground and wept. This sphere is too great for cupped hands like water at the fountainhead overflowing, baptism of reflections. I am quiet multitudes past the sum of my fears, though the hours waver in high tide far above the bedrock
