Drowning in my Thesis

Unfortunately I am not completely submerged and have taken to writing quick little poems on my subjects as a means of procrastination. The analogy for this post is not accurate, since this poem is about Juliet, not Ophelia. Maybe I'll write one for Ophelia, too, and submit the 6-line poems to my advisor in lieu of my thesis paper.

Juliet

She sleeps below the medlar
on her back as predicted,
softened by frost.

Time, the dagger's mark
a dark ellipse on flesh;
she wrinkles in her second grave.

March Ice

I am looking out the window right now at a planter that grows icicles instead of flowers. The chains are sheathed in ice that glints in the afternoon sunlight. With the 70 degree weather earlier this week, we were not expecting snow, but here it is. Will it be the relatively warm winter's last breath? Below, Rosanna Warren looks at a winter day in ways I could not have imagined, but are so imaginatively precise: Ice

by Rosanna Warren

Lawn a mastodon's matted hide Roof shingles dinosaur skin From the fencepost a crow watches afternoon throttle the small white house Clouds unskeining from the maple's hands Down from his front porch The old man steps Pauses Tests his balance on a slab of light