Poem Author: Barbara Crooker

The Gyre

by Barbara Crooker: Last night, the owl woke me; I heard him ask the moon in his rising tremolo, who who who? Unable to sleep, I thought of Monet at eighty, painting waterlilies, pond and sky over 250 times.


by Barbara Crooker: after “La Promenade des Anglais à Nice,”  Raoul Dufy / The row of palm trees curved along the Baie des Anges / like a strand of beads on the long white neck / of a beautiful woman, and the blue Mediterranean

In The Camargue 

by Barbara Crooker: there are flamingoes everywhere—les roses flamants, literally, pink flames—