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Beth Paulson


Listen to Beth Paulson read this poem:

Red Fox

A blaze of gold
            more than red
in early evening light,
            you strode slow through snow-
dusted new grass skirting
            a low hill behind the house.
Then black ears pointed up, you sensed
            my presence on the porch
and turned your  sleek head, sharp nose,
            toward me quick-
flashing black bead eyes.

How you lit up
            the dull afternoon
with your confidence
            and bravado

and in that moment gave me
            a grim hint of your intent
before you trod soundless
            to the forest edge
where the lesser creatures live.

Bright hunter—
            what more do I have
to fear or desire?



Listen to Beth Paulson read this poem:


At day’s end along the dusty path
I saw them, pale-pink votives glowing
            in the gravelly stone
            on the brown bank
            up from the clamoring river.

They were evening primroses
            sprung from gray-green, leathery leaves
            unfolding their silken petals, opening up
            to bright stamen centers.
They were the only blooming in that dark place.

I believe there are people like that, too,
            who cling to what’s in this world
            such as the poor person who offers
            the stranger bread or a song.



Beth Paulson's poems have appeared widely in small magazines, and her work was nominated for 2007 and 2009 Pushcart Prizes. A new book, Wild Raspberries, is forthcoming from Plain View Press in Spring 2009. Beth lives on Colorado's Western Slope, where she teaches writing workshops and climbs mountains.

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