Barbara Brooks

 Barbara Brooks is a member of the lesbian writing community

Top of the Bridge


I climb onto the bridge’s railing,

toss your name into the wind

but it revisits me like the swallow. 

I think I have captured you but

then you shift away like the fog

underneath the bridge. 


The mist net will not catch you.

I watch you float down the river.

I think I am done with your memory.


But I am not.  Grayness mists

around me.  I shiver in the dampness.

I will forever be cold.



Looking into Silence



The quiet of the house when the dog

is gone rings undisturbed.  Wind

purring through the pines is another quiet.


So is the crunch of a horse’s hooves

in sere autumn leaves.  Evening has its

own calm as night bugs begin their chants.


Perhaps the quietest is snow sifting through

branches, settling on winter’s Little Bluestem. 

The silence of a closing door.