@PloverPress

Piping plovers nest on open sand. They're small, and hard to see till you learn how to look. Plover Press is not a press, just open sand for poems like that.

Joined February 2015
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Each poem a pill for what ails you. An empty pocket. A broken bone. A daughter lost in the vast city. Each poem new snow, then footprints.
Words we lost: (list circa 2132, discovered later:) prairie starlit arctic cancer Florida frog Words we still have: hunger. Beatles.
There are no strangers; only spirits shaped as threats. There is no knowing where the children born today will lead us.
All who make cake are welcome.
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Even a worm has a shadow. You have to get close to see it.
Squirrels don't seem important. But to squirrels, this is the land of squirrels.
A puddle, where a moth can shake the sky.
I was playing. I was out in the rain. I wasn't coming in.
I like the shape of my friend's head.
I woke up first. My son snored like an old man. The moon was watching.
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