WORK BY ELIZABETH MYHR 
WORK BY ELIZABETH MYHR
| In spring, in mist, they rise above the violet, low- land valleys clear with rain from sunken creeks of watercress, unfurling fern and newborn moss, burning low and sweet fresh emeralds of the year, those fires once quelled by soft rain slowly rising to haunt the woods, pure, undimmed. Beneath them looking up I see the last stars netted in stems of wine-red wood, each tiny light framed by an upturned glance, chance, caught upon the axes of the galaxy. |