Sarah Rossiter

In bitter cold, the grieving wait for what might rise from shattered ground: beneath the rubble, something stirs, a baby, newborn, cord attached, ...

Today the dead speak, friends, relatives— I am older now, there are so many— strangers too, Rumi, Mary Magdalene, Jesus, those I have never met but know. ...

(author of The Mirror of Simple Souls, died June 1, 1310)

What is this need to clear the hill, to sever saplings, one by one dragged to the withered bracken by the load; not birches though, but oaks...

The crush of bodies, bow ties, suits, sleek smiling women dressed in silk, the din of small talk drowning thought, and all I yearn for is escape but where...

Of course it doesn’t take all morning but it could, sitting by the river, hoping to capture the day on paper as the cartridge draws slowly, and water sings, and trees...