Coming from sidewalks and stone 
cobbled alleyways, bare of grass 
no flowers but in pots or windowsills 
trees and gardens rare 
as fairytales without ogres 
or jealous trolls there to keep me 
out of sacred places 
no surprise I found heart’s home 
in light falling through layered leaves 
onto soft grass, green shadows 
taming every voice 
where I could dream my way 
through the hours 
drifting from quiet to quiet 
almost forgetting the world 
runs on threats and curses 
I rested where the weather 
kept waltz time 
through seasons green and gold 
or in the unleafed hush 
of white snowfall before it held 
even one footprint 
on its perfect surface 
and no voice came down 
hard enough to break my bones 
or file its claim to own me or accuse 
taking up all the space I have left 
making me hold my breath and wait 
for all its terrible energy 
to flare and fade at last 
leaving me unbroken, still 
holding onto my green memories 
blessed relief like sweet water 
poured on new burns 
leaving only traces, scars 
lacing my skin with faint designs 
like a branching tree 
a river delta, the nimbus 
of a neuron, spokes of a star’s 
corona, the patterns your 
great lightning left behind 

Mary McCarthy

is a retired Registered Nurse who has always been a writer. Her work has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including The Ekphrastic World edited by Lorette C. Luzajic; The Plague Papers edited by Robbi Nester; and The Memory Palace edited by Lorette C. Luzajic and Clare MacQueen; and recent issues of 3rd Wednesday, Blue Heron Review, Caustic Frolic, Gyroscope, inScribe Journal, Sheila-Na-Gig, Silver Birch Press, Storyteller Poetry Review, and Verse-Virtual.

She is the author of How to Become Invisible (Kelsay Books, 2023), a collection of poems which chronicles a bipolar journey.