I followed up up the sandy path
between pines and spruce that summer,
the burning sun our only witness. I was seven,
and my worry kept pace behind you.

(from Kildeer, by Debra Franke)

How do we bear witness when our compass is spinning, when our maps make us lost,
when the sun and moon disappear?
How to bear witness, when we cannot bear to look, because the river is everywhere, everywhere in this city?
Because we see her everywhere.
Like two eagles that came out of the drums at the rally, she is the wind.

(for JB, from Bearing Witness, by Debra Franke)

James Wright calls it a blessing,
how in those heightened moments we might
step out of ourselves and into blossom.
Was my blessing the chestnut horses?
Or was it my heart rising like the morning?

(from Three Horses, by Debra Franke)

The moon tide, like your dusk-dark room,
keeps pulling me, spinning on its axel;
blue sky/earth meet like past/present.

(from A Day of Flight, by Debra Franke)

You could have had us visit beforehand
preparing us would have been kind,
then the way would not have been
so hard to find in blowing snow

(from Snow Stopped The Town, by Debra Franke

Electricity in the air like black jagged lines of EEG screens.
The wind outside is fierce, rain heavy as gauze,
and I know that nothing is right
except the sky, orange reflective guiding me,
blue and red rain streaks like lights of a helicopter pad
shining in the night, telling emergencies
to land here lightly.

(from Everything Is OK, by Debra Franke)