Books by Laura Chester

Excerpt from FREE REIN

Meteor showers purge the Indian summer sky, while boys lie down, sulfur spent, in the middle of midnight cornfields, shorn, to watch for sudden stars. To see some birthday being born. Their mother now remembers well that perfect face of infancy, falling into her fallen arms, pleading with her to re-turn. She hums, she waits for the proper blow to strike her rocking chair with sense. What knocks. She isn't a mother like other ones are. But sings as she canters through the wood, baroque tunes that feel of meadow and fox hedges, French horns. No leaves left. And life too dear. Babe in the arms of memory, sears like a shooting star. She should have a blaze on her forehead, to erase her bent — The provocative rip. A modest impulse, high noon. November plainly provides, visibility, (naked, stripped, cold.) The heavens too will open and speak in the language of lasting iron and rose.


Hush, was whispered, guard it.) There is nothing to be done now, listen. Nothing you can do. First snow descends most silent. Falling through worlds to be out covering, our rest, putting us back beside the wood stove, where the copper pot sings for its supper, and the mouths of the children breathe against the frozen glass. There is nothing to accomplish, no test. Just allow that flower, to break its sheath of ice, and warming, bloom in brightness. No one has to take it. Nothing to be said. Let it open toward the hills, the higher hills. Let it be the song on which you rise, even as the snow descends, and absence animates the landscape, even at this time of darkness — sing, for tomorrow will amaze us, as the constellation rides, and the moonlight doubles in the heart of the beholder—Balancing the curving slopes of white.