Back to Issue 12
At last the departing sun gilds the blind roofs of the city.
Buildings sink into the nest of trees below the hill.
A rose root splits. Stem’s juice, the yield of blades
squeezed in my hand. The twig’s green wine
raises a leaf pattern in the momentary breeze.
This stopped place, the new study.
Maybe the only peace is to know the mind of God.
How to accept the hard blessing of patience,
to see petals loosen from clenched bud
in one cautious dawn.
By Mary Elizabeth Birnbaum
Mary Elizabeth Birnbaum was born, raised, and educated in New York City. Mary’s translation of the Haitian poet Felix Morisseau-Leroy has been published in The Massachusetts Review, the anthology Into English (Graywolf Press), and in And There Will Be Singing, An Anthology of International Writing by The Massachusetts Review, 2019. Her work has appeared in Lake Effect, J Journal, Spoon River Poetry Review, Soundings East, Barrow Street, and other literary journals.