across the pond

her pond

an acorn 

shivers

ripples

the soul

leaves

together

each geese

cranes

as one

gusts

across

cross

across

Empty but for the Angels

After his mother’s

funeral, he returned

to clear all the

unwanted debris

from his childhood

home. He never

understood her

religious fervor,

and though he hated

those hand-carved

wooden angels

on every windowsill,

he had already bought

her the last one

in the set for Christmas.

Tenderly,

he wrapped each figurine

in newspaper.

Autumn in New Hampshire

Sky-dark clouds

hang

with the heft of soft,

silver peaches.

Snow is coming.

An Ode to Rating Home/Work

(a stiatimcatis)

In both pots—

mentor and mother,

stirring two terrenes, papers

for 

green students

under one

arm, blue

burdens of blooming tucked

under the other—still,

sprouts blossom.

Sleepover Sijo

Pre-teen girls sharing gossip, under covers — a sleepover.

At midnight they continued making such noise on the third floor.

Two o’clock, we were still awake in the bedroom below them.

Greg Hill is a poet and short fiction writer in West Hartford, Connecticut, United States. He has a MALS degree in Creative Writing from Dartmouth College and an MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. His work has appeared in Barzakh, Atlas and Alice, Six Sentences, Grub Street, and elsewhere. He and his wife enjoy the struggle of raising three determined feminists. Website: https://www.gregjhill.com.