Cthulhu

Over the course of one April Sunday, my neighbor
Culled the grapevine between our yards.
Tentacles wound forty feet through chain link,
Obscured the weedy corner behind the garage,
Protected my woodpile
Under a cantilevered awning of suckered arms,
Succor to Japanese beetles.

Gone now, beast and perhaps, beetle.
Oddity in a grass ocean. The crabapple
Dances farewell, its flowered branches wave in the snow.

Keep It Between the Ditches

Blind Abo Olafsson lost his white cane
And is taking his walks without it.
A Korean War vet and 93, forgive him
for leaving it, like a cup of Starbucks,
on the roof of his pickup before
driving south down County Road 3.
He had been picking corn all day for his nephew
and was distracted by dreams of
uncountable light.

Sara Dovre Wudali is a writer and editor from Saint Paul. She grew up on the plains of southwest Minnesota, where strong wind blows and box elder bugs rule. Her poems and essays have been published in anthologies and literary journals such as Tiny Seed Literary Journal, Sleet Magazine, Sweet, Hairstreak Butterfly Review, Brevity Nonfiction Blog, North Dakota Quarterly and as part of a public art project in Mankato, Minnesota. You can find her on Twitter here: @saradovrewudali or on Instagram under the handle: saradovrewudali.