| Reflections A steel river rushes along the highway near a shallow brook where minnows swam while once we slept in willow shade, our heads heavy as late roses on slender stems. At meadow’s edge, I catch your hand before we turn toward our childhood home which is no more. His Place Each night, he sat on a wooden chair under the trees, waited through the hours for church bells to break silence, took a new stick to whittle down his evenings. The moon threw lacy patterns on the lawn as his years rolled by without punctuation. He leaned back against his house and let its bones whisper of the past. Everything’s gone, now, but his essence hovering close like mist settling soft over the valley. Jean McLeod Ms. McLeod lives on the lip of the Chesapeake Bay where she spends clement weather on the beach. When Hurricanes and Nor’easters threaten, she cowers in her corner office with her laptop and writes, in order to annoy editors on several continents. Her prose and poetry has been published in Portfolio Magazine, Moondance, Readers Digest, NO O Journal, Concise Delights, Forces Poetry, WINDZ, Vox Poetica, The Journal of Healing, Powhatan Review, and several other venues. She won the Agnes L. Braganza award for Non-fiction, and the Christine Sparks, second place award for Poetry. Ms. McLeod’s book of poetry, Tiny Poems for Women Who Think They Hate Poetry follows women’ s journey from childhood through old age. It bears the distinction of being one of the longest titled poetry books published. Art ~ Edward Atkinson Hornel |
