by Kelly Gray

I read the elephants are drunk
in the Yunnan Province,
sloshed and sleeping in the tea gardens.

by Emma Bennett

I’ve taken for granted a sky
dotted with stars like the feathers…

on a hummingbird’s neck, iridescent…

by Ella Shively

I ferry eight bell pepper seedlings back to my hometown in the same styrofoam takeout box I sowed them in six weeks ago, when I still thought their fruits would brighten the window of my college dorm…

by Nicole Tan

The whale is a bleached body spilt on the dunes, a long way from the sea. How did it get this far inland, among the sedges and marram grass?…

by Joe Cottonwood

Mrs. Peters who just last week was teaching you
handwriting on Zoom, sweet Mrs. Peters
just died of the virus…

by v.n. wesley

Soon after the Seattle lockdown,
the loop of my life fell in on itself…

by Lea Aschkenas

After that nighttime attack
that left him with a wound
to his left ear, an infection…

by Joy Sullivan

The way we pay attention now. A fat red tomato asleep in the garden. The neighbor boy offering me his last stick of gum…

by Caren McCaleb

I make faces from the stuff I see while walking my two small dogs, Feather and Decaf. We’ve been at it daily for four years and have posted over one thousand faces to Instagram. Being outdoors creating little creatures with random objects is an antidote to staring at a computer all day, which I do professionally.

by Christina Lee

Out by the trash bins, a man flags us down,
says he’s our upstairs neighbor,
wants to apologize for all the noise…

by J.I. Kleinberg

These found-word collage poems are part of an ongoing series (2100+) of collages built from phrases created unintentionally through the accident of magazine page design.

by Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad

in my letterbox I find
Yuki’s postcard from Japan
she’s floating in a snowglobe…

by Claire Loader

There is a bird that comes to my threshold
Leaves tiny sticks at my door
Every morning like clockwork…

by Nancy Brewka-Clark

The theology of
gardening is best
practiced on
one’s knees…

by Lauren Coggins

Beside my sleeping son in a time
of pandemic, I worry about the fever
he’s brought home, how we who have not traveled…

by Katy Haas

A visual poem…

Hiraeth is a Welsh word for homesickness or nostalgia, an earnest longing or desire, or a sense of regret.

by Howie Good

The day was long, but the night is already longer.
I seem to have discovered my shadow side–
a wardrobe with mystery contents…

by Renée Francoeur

I am back in the bathtub. It’s the second time today but it’s only half-filled this time—steaming water two shades too close to dandelion dust. The pipes are old; the landlords say it’s like this in all their century homes. I close my eyes and walk through fields of mustard seed…