Celeste Boudreaux

holy seed sprouts and grows in silence in darkness in secret new life flutters . . .

When life’s four-by-four fence post / blindsides you from behind / and you find yourself cycling through / all the stages of grief . . .

In my summer childhood memory / I stand at the edge of the lake / Oblivious to the warm drizzle / A white quilt of mist hovers . . .