Message in a bottle
By Katherine Gotthardt |
I am not sure what is more important: to tell you how I used
to narrate my life in my mind while I walked the neighborhood
as a child? How I never moved my lips, but somehow
made more exciting that single horse farm on the corner,
Christmas untitled
By Katherine Gotthardt |
This vivid morning,
owl still howling a dirge
into another daytime,
I am reminded of you,
Presidents’ Day
By Katherine Gotthardt |
And it occurs to me
that the throat of sunrise
has more than a singular sermon,
Ever have a morning
By Katherine Gotthardt |
Ever have a morning where everything
seems to bother you? Where coffee filters
conjoin like slurwords, and not even your longest thumbnail
can separate what has become what?
Painting the Door
By Katherine Gotthardt |
When sometimes you paint a door
because you’ve left it too long,