Victoria McCabe

Bare trees under a requiem of clouds. Snow. Over the ground a gaggle of geese Hustles across an expanse of nothing” They haven’t a prayer; not a kernel Breaks through dirt; no hand scatters a repast. The multitudinous graves of the good Do not flare into flower. Sorrow Lays itself down . . . . Continue Reading »

You have returned to find so much more To despair: the flesh whiter, More helpless, the city stinking As never before, and those Whom you had so carefully avoided Are bringing tea and blankets now, The bounty of their gardens. Later, you find a potato Rolled from the table, rolled To the corner . . . . Continue Reading »