1st Place
The way a chair makes room for me
and gladly bears my weight.
The way a path in the woods
holds the memory of my steps.
The way the pale fingers of the moon
reach down through the window
to lightly brush my cheek at night.
Earth is fierce belonging.
The way my feral soul
has learned to trust
the bowls of milk
set out for it
and cautiously walks
through the open kitchen door.
Street Address
City, State, Zip
Phone Number
Celebrating and promoting poetry for 75 Years
Your Custom Text Here