Florence

magpie tales

they carry the memories
the scent of Florence
arthritic fingers
ease into elegance
youth is restored
dreaming of via guicciardini

The Cathedral

Magpie Tales-Tess Kincaid

cold, stone cold

doors large enough

for horses and carriages  

pray in your coach option 
for the aristocracy

the scent of beeswax

smoldering prayers

woolen coats, mittens

for the common folk
sore knees, frozen noses

organ sounds and crystal voices

piercing the nave
images in glass
reminding the sinners
of the possibilities

Hell Racers

from Magpie Tales

cows had carved out the paths

in summer we picked violets there

in winter it was glazed with ice

treacherous on the curves

too close to the partially frozen pond

the sledding course was dangerous

passing for little girls

bundled in our pastel snowsuits

we were hell racers

screaming as we flew

trudging back up again and again 

until near dark

mom's call to dinner

ruined it