Wednesday, November 20, 2013


Slick fingers tremble
Shuttle slips across the board
Who will love me now?

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Old Moss Woman

Who is to say what a tree remembers?
Twisted and bent, dying limbs
trailing skeins of lichen;
caught woefully
in a mockery
of protracted death throes.
A perch, a home, a hollow
for generations of matching
scolding squirrels to stash their loot,
for songbirds
to stealthily tuck their transient
opalescent young.
Who is to say?

Rachel Westfall
June 19, 2013

Wednesday, March 13, 2013


That woman walks
down the road of
stone cobbles, her soul
split in two. One
wanders the past,
the other
stalks the present.
The lament of sore feet
tells nothing
of the journey gone: bunions
have no tales to tell.
That woman’s past
comes face to face with
a stranger; her present
with a man she knows,
but all too well.
She weeps silent tears.
She knows no sorrow.

Rachel Westfall
March 13, 2013

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

Winter night's crime

They natter as I slide by, a flock
bickering in the crepuscular light.
There are no gifts that come with this dawn.

No hive mind for these feather-heads,
grey with edges dipped
in the hot blood of baptism, just
a subtle gift of words, a susurrus
rising in strange, muttered currents
to fling blame back and forth
for the eviscerated mounds of crushed
rowan berries. Torn fruit-flesh lines the streets,
the sidewalks, the barrows of grimy snow:
a compote to spice the repast
of January’s shivering child.

Rachel Westfall
January 8, 2013