The scope of the topics explored in this issue is, therefore, necessarily broad without being comprehensive.

Karen says she’s seen it when the souls begin their perambulations.

it’s difficult to appraise the unseeable

the glacier is black / polar bears run on hot sand

The work of German photographer Karl Blossfeldt and his relationship to plants is reimagined in this poem by 2019 Poems in Translation Contest winner Alba Cid from her collection Atlas.Light is choral…

Is there some sort of double marginalization at play?

She is a woman I have watched for many years, and for as many years she has been unaware of me.

The protagonist of this month’s work is the natural world in its multitudes.

before their paths divided, they formed, together, three glints of light and shadow moving on at last

In Being Mangrove, Eliseu Cavalcante explores the relationship between humans and the mangrove forests of Bahia, Brazil.

Rain was no longer rain!

The shock that was yet to come had long ago passed her by.

O, it is a defeated god, approaching the dusk of time.

Global warming manifests in obvious ways.

“Get it through your head: God and me, we’re the same person.”

Chaos is not confined to the glacier’s edge.

What use is it for us humans to cling to our freedom in the midst of all this trash?

No single means of communication can be solely effective, because climate change is such a “wicked” problem—it is truly planetary in scale.

So this is how it all ends . . .

Not as a multitude, but as one.

a dark stillness / goes about sowing death.

When a man cries / he floods himself in salt tears / and colorfast he drowns

Norway’s Laila Stien tracks a group of Sámi herders guiding their reindeer on the seasonal migration to the north, fighting obstacles both natural and man-made.

Oral and written literary traditions in Basque follow two very distinct paths, both very rich and alive.

Everything—including life— / ends when the hands give up.

Our knees were trusting doves; the ribbons in our hair, delicious bait.

Almost no one cares for the wounds of others.

Danish poet Naja Aidt blends nature and myth in this freewheeling ode to a child.

The female branches made off with the laundry on our lines

The earth (like the heart) leans back in its seat

If I was a cactus, what kind of plant was Midori?

How long did I contemplate the line dividing / the branch from the water.