little wings
all depends on how you define screaming
This morning, they change
he presents a case to my heart
to he touches my heart
Adding words I don’t believe in
steely sharks circling a wounded whale
to steely sharks are circling a wounded whale
Correcting something they know
nothing about
the pile of gossip and pain who owes who what
to the pile of gossip and pain who owes whom what
I sit here
looking at three cowhands
buried in a single grave
buried with their boots on
Thanks to Bill, Laverne, and Roberta for the little dogies.
Love-in-the-mist seedlings
Take their time to open
Smart not to risk the erratic heat and chill
Of so-called spring romance
Do you need water? A mother asks,
and we echo Do you? To our own children
Fashion flasks appear from nowhere but
the children run off, red-faced, sweaty
From the swings a child calls Mama
and we look in unison, geese in a V
until one of us veers off; a child runs over
Can you come and find me?
Pause the mother, let her breathe
She wipes her sweat, we wipe ours
No, we brought you here for the children
Play with the children
And we exhale as she exhales
And we all sit as she sits
There is no one towering
There is no one to judge
one thinks it will be lovely
a gift of peace solitude
after so much constant crawl
but when it arrives and there is no replacement
it seems rather
alone
This poem was written as an experiment of two writers, one living and one dead. I edited and rewrote these exerpts as a poem from an eight-page unpublished essay “The Fourth Season” written by Jesse Stuart, who was one of America’s most prolific writers. I named the poem “Winter Symphony.” Stuart, wrote autobiographies, essays, novels, poetry, and short stories, and published over 60 books during his lifetime, but he loved being a poet and you can find poetry in any of his genres. I found this essay while doing research for my book that will feature unpublished Stuart essays. So here you go, a work by the former Guggenheim Scholar with my contributions.
I’d rather take a walk on a winter night than in any season
because I love to hear the loud and soft winds blowing
over the brown fallen leaves or snow-covered landscape.
The sounds of these winds can have any background
because all winter settings have a different beauty,
quite different than any other season.
I love to sit on a stone or log on a snow-covered hillside
or in a deep dark valley and listen to the music of the wind
performed by Mother Nature’s magnificent orchestra.
This winter landscape is set as nature’s backdrop for a concert
with the moon and stars as spotlights shining on the stage
where one could write a poetic review for this grand symphony.
1. The Boy’s Fear
I am ten years old and wide awake,
not with dreams, but dread—
of flashing lights that stalk the street,
of sudden knocks, of breathless bed.
I carry ID like a shield,
though I was born beneath this sky.
The whispers say they’re hunting
not the where, but the why.
My father’s laugh sounds like Peru,
my skin, a sunlit truth,
and every echo in the hallway
tells of raids, of rumors, proof—
proof we’re different, proof we’re prey.
My older brothers don’t play
beyond our block or stay
out past dusk—they know the way
that innocence can be erased
by a glance, a name, a place.
Even the pledge I say each day
feels like a lie, or worse—betrayal.
I don’t hate the man on TV
because I’m told to—
I hate him because he makes me fear
for the father I belong to.
2. The Mother’s Prayer
I am forty and wide awake,
not with dreams, but dread—
I held their hands when they were small,
taught them songs, packed their lunch,
promised this land was theirs, too,
told them their names held just as much
weight as any preacher or judge.
Now I check the locks each night,
and lie to keep them whole—
“No, mi amor, they won’t come to school.”
Though rumors twist through morning drop-off,
PTA texts come coded and clipped.
“Run if the vans slow down,” they say,
as if freedom’s a hallway slip.
I ache when I see them quiet,
my eldest flinch at sirens,
my youngest say he’d fight God
just to keep his father from vanishing.
He came believing in papers,
in oaths, in liberty’s hand.
But it’s faith I pray with now,
not laws, that guard this land.
3. The Father’s Oath
I am fifty-two and wide awake,
not with dreams, but dread—
They said I must earn it—so I did.
Test by test, pledge by pledge.
I came with hands full of hope
and built a life from nothing.
I loved their daughter. I learned their history.
I paid their taxes, stayed out of sight.
I stood beside the flag and meant it.
I cleaned their offices, worked through night.
Still, I carry proof of my belonging
in wallet, glovebox, phone,
because one error, one rumor,
and I vanish, alone.
I asked her once, “If they take me,
will you come?” She said, “Always.”
But her voice breaks now
as if I’m already gone.
This is the country I chose,
but some days I wonder:
has it ever chosen me back?
4. The Grandmother’s Reckoning
I am sixty-two and wide awake,
not with dreams, but dread—
Our roots run deep—Mayflower on one side,
Denmark on the other. We fled war for hope,
sailed seas with trembling hands,
only to become this—
my grandson hiding ID in his sock.
He wonders if presidents can hate him,
asks if liberty’s up for sale,
asks why it favors skin.
I watched him sleep as a baby,
held him close when he cried.
Now I watch him scan the sidewalk
for ICE, for flashing lights.
The pledge I once recited
feels like threadbare cloth.
I taught him of justice and dreams,
but never this kind of loss.
If this is what freedom has become,
it’s not the nation I once knew.
It’s not the promise I pledged to,
and yet—here we are.
5. The Statue’s Lament
I am centennial and thirty-one and wide awake,
not with dreams, but dread—
They lit my torch with hope,
called me Mother of Exiles,
etched their dreams on my base
and wept beneath my gaze.
“Give me your tired, your poor…”
they whispered. Believed.
Now the wind through my crown
carries only disbelief.
I watch children walk with papers,
citizens who tremble,
families still suspect
no matter what they’ve proven.
I was meant to greet, not guard.
To shine, not shackle.
Yet the ships no longer come—
just fear, and liberty’s crackle.
You who claim my name,
stand beside me again.
Not with closed fists,
but with open hands.
For until no child wakes at dawn
wondering if their father is gone,
or hates their skin for its shade or song,
I am no beacon,
only a hollow monument
to a promise undone.
They say you can ask games of Death
And my choice, if it’s true,
Would be a cozy farming sim—
Roots of Pacha or Stardew
It wouldn’t be attempt to “win”
Or even prolong life
But to see Death harvest fields of wheat
With a pixel reaping scythe
The show must go on
Elephants must be fed T
he ticket booth still opens at 4:30
The show will go on
The Ferris wheel will turn
Kids’ eyes will gleam for cotton candy
The show will go on
Lions will be tamed
Tonight, the sword swallower will eat fire
The show will move on
and set up down the road
Strike your tent, leave your pain behind
