Francesca Bell
Highwater
O, winter, your trees that stand empty,
leaves flamed and guttered,
rain that beats the house all night
and wakes me with its wild insistence on falling.
I lie in the dark, rooms grown cold,
and ache the way rain aches
from its forced intimacy with glass.
How it slides the thin transparency tasked
with boundaries’ retention, pools in every yard,
causes the helpless gullies to spill.
Francesca Bell's poems have appeared in many journals including New Ohio Review, North American Review, Poetry Northwest, Prairie Schooner, and Zone 3. She has been nominated eight times for the Pushcart Prize and once for Best of the Net. She won the 2014 Neil Postman Award for Metaphor from Rattle. Her website is http://francescabellpoet.com/
Return to March 2015 Edition
O, winter, your trees that stand empty,
leaves flamed and guttered,
rain that beats the house all night
and wakes me with its wild insistence on falling.
I lie in the dark, rooms grown cold,
and ache the way rain aches
from its forced intimacy with glass.
How it slides the thin transparency tasked
with boundaries’ retention, pools in every yard,
causes the helpless gullies to spill.
Francesca Bell's poems have appeared in many journals including New Ohio Review, North American Review, Poetry Northwest, Prairie Schooner, and Zone 3. She has been nominated eight times for the Pushcart Prize and once for Best of the Net. She won the 2014 Neil Postman Award for Metaphor from Rattle. Her website is http://francescabellpoet.com/
Return to March 2015 Edition