I write every morning. These morning poems are a catchment of what is running through my thoughts, things in the news, or my frustrations. These poems came from watching my great-grandmother’s hometown in Ukraine be destroyed.
Wings over the next hill
Because white feathered birds
Can also be
And every hill is this hill
A poem read in the shadow of a burning nuclear power plant
A poem written in ink
Made from the ashes of a Holocaust memorial
Every hill is this hill
Desperation looks like heroism from some angles
Translations are delicate
A lace made of feathers and smoke
In between the storms•
This poem appears in the Summer 2022 issue of Alta Journal.