by Melissa Crowe

Uncle, today there is nothing to say but yes,
to my new city, cupped in its sequence

of palms — purple, periwinkle, watery blue,
these mountains I can see from my driveway,

from the turnpike, from the grocery store parking lot,
and when I swim in the town pool with my girl, we float

in stillness beneath the sight of so many mountains.
I can say nothing but yes to banjo and whiskey voices,

railless roads that narrow to rare air and the sight
of vertical forests, nestled reservoirs, yes to the blessing

of firefly dusk and then the swollen, chirping night,
to the black bear who visits the birdfeeder

and the blueberry bush, to the junkyard hound
who threads the woods behind my house, nose to leaf litter.

Yes to the song–borrower dipping to the porch rail,
seeming to consider me before he turns away his beak

and departs, flashing white underwings. Oh, yes
to their sudden, necessary appearance, yes even

to their swift farewell, and there is nothing, either,
to say but yes to the absence of ocean, the noon damp hot

and saltless, yes to my far sister who says the old place
is empty without me, yes to you, Uncle, you gone

in an astonishing flash, more gone
than everything I left behind.

by Michael Macklin

So maybe I was the one
your mother never mentioned
or your father who was still healing
after I ran over his knees
with my Arctic Cat while he waited
for some winter–slow fish to rise
through that frosty hole in the lake,
both of us probably blind drunk.
I’d have sworn you’d remember,
pink cheeky little porker, all of two,
wrapped in the extra mackinaws,
burbling to the spare propane tank
next to you like an extra brother.
That was me and Jack Daniels
spinning donuts on the ice
to make you smile one more time.
Ah, Nanookster, I carried that
Coleman–bright look through every dive
and truck stop from the County
to Panama and keep it still
wadded up in the back closet
of my bourbon-soaked brain
like a rabbit’s foot worn fuzzy
from use. I may not have been much
of an uncle, but you were always
a soul–stealin’ smiler.

by Michael Macklin

The way rain slowly erodes stone
by washing and caressing its faces,
my hope is that time moves over us
polishing our hearts until what remains
is this love compressed by blue years
of pent up desire into the facets of a shining
jewel that remains to light the ever hopeful
world though our spirits may have moved
farther downstream than we imagined possible.

by Michael Macklin

Ascension begins like this,
walking into the falling snow
each flake lifts us with its gentle kiss.

Imperceptible as the silent hiss
we rise above the earth below
ascension begins like this.

As a bare oak reaches to assist,
keeps us from the wind’s cruel blows,
each flake lifts us with its gentle kiss.

Trembling we would be remiss
to leave all dreams of stars we hold,
ascension begins like this.

No storm’s song could we resist,
but rise above the moon’s shadow,
each flake lifts us with its gentle kiss.

This is no wonder to dismiss,
but rather one to deeply know.
Ascension begins like this,
each flake lifts us with a gentle kiss.