by Jennifer Landretti | Jun 5, 2020 | Essays
One afternoon in Wyoming, I sat on a hilltop. The wind seemed not only to blow the grasses but the sunlight itself, sweeping it into my skin, a warm jangle. I was having some down time in a high place. Having slowed, I could see how much a rushed life had whiplashed...
by Jennifer Landretti | Jan 3, 2019 | Poetry
He is not among the exultanttwenty-eight pointing upand back. Nor in the two figuresstanding on air. He appearsnowhere in the hemp or amongthe sharp-edged shadowsof the phosphorescent flash; not therein the washed grays and whitesof shirts and eyes, not inthe...
by Jennifer Landretti | Jan 1, 2019 | Poetry
After dyingI say we are givena little time, a lull of farewellthat delays our forgetting like a pool in the creek sweepplaced just sofor us who, just beginning,have come so faralready —to this stillness into which trees reflect once moreas we too reflect in our...
by Jennifer Landretti | Jan 1, 2018 | Poetry
I’ve aged even in dreams.But not you, my boundless soulso alluring in your constancy, turning toward mewith the expression of a college love I’d nearly forgotten, turning in orange light with one shoulder to the shadow of your back room.In my sleep the dead come to...
by Jennifer Landretti | Mar 1, 2017 | Essays
One morning I saw a stick in a tree. Curved and broken, it lay across a forked bough about six feet out from the trunk. The buds had yet to open so I could see the whole of it, black against a red sky. The tree itself, a young ash, stood in a park near my home. Late...
