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Aftermath
Once the water receded—its shallow pools drained
And temporary islands dry,
There was only the thought of rescue—
For the soap dispenser high on the knoll
Washed clean of the hands it once soaped with,
The pull-tab can and the blue bee's wax
Container that found their way to shore,
We walk among them, calling out the different names,
Filling our bags with the survivors as we go.
Firewood
All day these pieces have been waiting their turn—
The oak, the maple, the birch,
It's a fire they want—a hearth of coals
Engaging enough for a grainy walnut, a hearty beech,
A place to warm old bones
And the coal-black of iron—
That dusty-red glow
That settles in the womb of a flickering star,
Chasing the polar night away.
The Right Word
I have come this far,
Foraged through the long language of words
As a forensic detective might,
Searching for that one prefect group of letters
That will soak in like a steady rain.
Then, become as dramatic and blue
As this mid-march day will be.
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Jim Moore currently lives and works in Springvale, Maine. His work has recently appeared in journals such as Lily, Mobius, Red River Review, and Rose and Thorn.