January 1st, 2010
Suppertime Sonnets
Tags/ Posted by Kate SherrodYou, supplement to the endless series, place this mirror up to your face: Can you feel the steam of breath against your lips?continue reading this poem
My parents are still here due to the snow
That’s falling fatly on us in Cheyenne
September 28th, 2009
A Tiny, Gold Alarm: An Appreciation of Paul Valery
Tags/ Posted by Kate SherrodSince I was young, I've been the youngest and worshipped Venus in the sacred and fragrant colonnades of even her humblest serving maidscontinue reading this poem
My first memory of bees and their stings is indeed of a crying face: my younger sister’s. She was walking barefoot on our lawn in Saratoga, Wyoming’s brief summer. We were both still too young for school. One moment she was rambling along at a good clip on her babyish legs. The next, her face screwed up tight and a wail escaped her that I can still hear to this day. My mother rushed and swept her up into a tight hug and bundled her into the house.
