Cynthia West says, "Kneeling, I retrieve shattered shards, glue them together. If I can stick even one piece to another, I have a poem. It is bread. . . . To write poetry, I memorize suffering's names, visit the wounds no stitches can hide, gather stories in my pain bag until it bursts. Love aches if it isn't told. . . . My words are small, round circles, elm seeds, designed to inhabit cracks. They sprout, growing leaves that call water, roots that hold earth, shade that shelters fruit. . . . I lean over the stream, holding a tin for panning gold, allow water to wash away the mud until the sun flashes on wet metal. . . . Kneeling, I retrieve shattered shards, glue them together. If I can stick even one piece to another, I have a poem. It is bread." Known for her visionary realist paintings, Cynthia is also a poet, a photographer, a digital compositor, a book artist, and a potter. Her home and garden of thirty-five years is a healing center as well as her studio and gallery. In...

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