by Johnny Flaherty

In the late Spring a pair of speckless swans
were building a nest at the end of the cove
near the yacht club, collecting tall reeds
softened by the high tides and erecting a mound
that rose above the tide level

I’d pass them by on my daily walks
and marvel at their industry
while they paid no mind to me

soon the female laid her eggs
and sat upon them all day long,
day after day, while the male would
come and go, swimming around the cove,
never beyond rescue range

and today I observed the female
standing alongside her nest
gazing down with anticipation
at the three large eggs nestled
together in the center, tingling maybe
with possessive motherly love,
while her mate was floating close by

a night or two later, the Flower Moon,
known as “the planting moon,”
rose in pagan perfection, lighting up
the cloudless night sky, and I mused:
how apropos for those swans!
while I gazed upon this moon’s
noble effulgence from my window,
sipping merlot in blithe contemplation
of light and dark comingling;
could a night be more idyllic?

next morning, strolling by the bay,
I turned down towards the yacht club
when tragedy assailed my unwary eyes
and weakened my aged knees:
lo, the Flower Moon, a super moon,
had brought exceptionally high tides
that rose above the mound of reeds
and swept the nest away, hurling
its eggs to the bottom of the bay

the pair of numb defeated swans
lay in grief on the bare muddy ground
where their nest of dreams once stood,
never to be hatched
never to be hallowed
never to be paraded
before the likes of me

yes, the Flower Moon can be a “killing moon”
so the natives say, as new sprouts
sometimes get overrun
by the bigger-and-stronger,
and who might be privy to Mother Nature’s
motives for betraying mother swan?
as a passerby with watery eyes
can only curse on her behalf

by Michael Anania

a line in time, time
curved, held and bent;

we struggle with
the moment as though

it were a shell we
could pry open

with our finger-
nails, releasing

something bright
soft and pliant

the air quick
and filled with it

by Michael Anania 

trial and error — how is

it we manage these days,

all touch withheld from us?

the cactus on my walk is

opening its waxen buds,

my mock orange is in full

bloom; at some distance

peonies have pushed up

through winter’s crust

glory-of-the-snow is

snowed in once again,

wind flowers and scilla;

distances marked by

this season’s urgencies,

a handful of spring air,

my dear, these changes

we think of as time are

directionless, purpose,

an invention we have

agreed to, the area

seen under the green

curve of leaf and stem,

cloud and cloud shadow

moving in their own ways;

a fistful of microbes,

a deep breath counted

out now; all that seems

to be starting up again,

the long evenings’ bright

reach ends, its ending

a meteor shower, seen

only as it extinguishes

itself, ourselves, embers

as well, quietly separate

beneath the distant slow

burning fires of the stars

by Matthew Guennette

It’s possible the hummingbirds that
divebombed the feeder and the yellow
rain slicker hung by the door were not
metaphors for anything, even beauty.