Poetry by Athena Kildegaard
How much there is to sing of, breathless as frog at noon, a song echoing desire, our pent-up viral longing for something more than monitor.
How much there is to sing of, breathless as frog at noon, a song echoing desire, our pent-up viral longing for something more than monitor.
As I looked back, they sifted through the air, like ash, and resumed feeding.
I wonder if all living things need a self-portrait.
I want to go back to being a child, when I believed that protecting animals was something I could do.
I frog-kick closer, desperate to recapture what has been lost.
But at least that world’s alive to rage and mourn.
A heartless leader and legions of nameless heroes define this tragedy
But I have reason to believe moments of intense clarity and energy have a rhythm that can be experienced in the here and now.
The ancients believed those who witness these colors would live forever.
A scraggly rooster calls my soul from the past.