Laura’s forecast


from the cradle she’d trudged this far
winter snows are bluest
at dusk, but still

there are no notes
worth the ink
and confessions without firecrackers
do not even warrant a whistle

stoned with holy fury
the adulteress is fearless

for Mephistopheles is bored
by those who slip religion
into conversation
just before
the coffin
closes

In Shay’s word garden this week we have a choice lexicon from Laura Nyro