Naya Blue lives and writes in the mountains of Western Maine.
Stacked cord wood huddles near the front porch.
Those dried bones of once stout trees,
who stood twenty years sentry in their own company.... more »
In one window shadows fell from the pines
dark against the sky as moon light whispered around their old shoulders.
Winter’s breath fades in the last days of cold February... more »
Your memories of my life are this pastiche
of old worn records that they don’t make any more.
Led Zeppelin blaring into the heat of summer as locusts clicked away in the... more »