Marielle Grenade-Willis's Prairie Crocus inhabits the all-too overlooked in-between of seasons, bursting with quiet, deliberate certainty. Like an illuminator, Grenade-Willis scans the planet for evidence of scintillation—soil and roots, sun and moon—and with them colors the inner-ear. Hers is a gravitational assurance. Prairie Crocus is verse at home in the body of time, a deft affirmation of abundance and scarcity alike. Earth also breathes.
Marielle Grenade-Willis writes about ground
and sky and what is in them. She
asks to “get swept away before
the quicksand tightens."
She doesn't need music to sing
in Prairie Crocus; the geese
“giggling and / crying,
chattering / gaggles" do it for her.
is a poet, volunteer, vocalist, and gardener from Virginia. Now living in Colorado, she works for AmeriCorps and listens to the ground and watches the sky. Her poetry has been featured on CPR: Public Radio International's “The World" and in the first three short-form iterations of The Lune.