goldfield cemetery—my ancestors in the sectionwith no headstone
summer byway—i roll down the windowand become dog
a blizzard of petals—we all laughin the same languageSandra Simpson
late winter . . .a memory of tulipsslowly surfaces
abandoned station—a jaunty tailon the dust-drawn catSandra Simpson
old-growth forest—a fox lollops acrossthe macadam
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