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Vo l . 7 N o . 1

Visiting the Cabin of Winter News above the Tanana River Like opening the door to my grandfather’s greenhouse in Burien, long after he tilled under the raspberry patch, the cucumbers, the bordering dahlias to make his earth flat. Even the cherry tree - arms reaching for Mt. Rainier, for the bright trollius sun, reaching over the fence into Mrs. Reneker’s yard – slashed, cut down and burned. The grate of a stiff hinge, flutter of a Visqueen flap covering the broken glass pane, the structure exhaled its musty breath as I enter the space of the green-thumbed. Here, the rusted gardening tools: claw, hoe, and spade. Here, the boxes of fertilizer; hardpacked, the tops coated with dust. I don’t know, as he did, the wisdom of planting seeds by moonlight, or of following the dogeared pages of the Farmer’s Almanac,

Cattails No. 10

but I have walked the straight rows of the garden; I have caught the season’s fat berries dropping from the vine. Only words linger in such empty places.

Out My Window

Sheary Clough Suiter

Sheary Clough Suiter

Wendy Cohan

Lately

All I want is a conversation, Effortless ebb and flow Between two souls Unafraid of the light. I’ll show you mine if You show me yours.   Why this is so hard, In fact rare as hen’s teeth, Is inexplicable when Sharing is the essence Of anything at all Between two people.   I don’t want a soliloquy Or a lecture or by God A thesis defense I never Asked for and don’t need. Simple and honest To the bone is enough.

Cirque, Vol. 7 No. 1  

A Literary Journal for the North Pacific Rim

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