Barbara Dilworth

Do-si-doing with the moon, your oceans swirl around your waist. You’re oh so beautiful, earth of mine, dancing with the moon in space.

We go in pig we come out sausage. No mill on earth can push in sausage and pour out pig.

Wisteria’s blooming above the gate with heavy blossoms borne by every shoot and it begins to bend beneath the weight of lavender racemes that hang like fruit. Its wrist-thick vines grip tight the posts and swell within the grape-stake fence gaps, an embrace of many years that’s shaped the vine to fill the narrow gaps […]

Once as I passed by the bay a hundred egrets stood in the tidal flats, and the shape of their gathering showed where the tide was exactly deep as an egret’s leg. Oh how perfect, beautifully perfect to be an egret in egret-high tide and watch the little fish twinkle at your feet like silver […]