What a beautiful, sad poem. It treats an issue with high contemporary stakes—drug addiction among traumatized combat veterans—and also delivers a subtle and intelligent critique of war.

“En Route to Bolinas, A Rose” takes us on a journey that is spiritual as well as physical that leads us to the edge of a precipice, offering a glimpse into the darkness and mystery of the terrible eternal. That it does this by mimicking the action of human thought in a poem that feels light, vivid, and as fresh as a watercolor still on the easel to dry, is its genius.

The simple everyday things—having a house to repair, a child who is alive and cooing, a glass of water to drink—here become paramount so we see them afresh for the gifts they are.

If literature and poetry are ways to remember our beloved dead, they can also be ways of mourning the unborn. Who will remember us after we are gone? It’s a question this poem asks and to which is itself its own answer.

There are more ways to parent than what biology can offer. We all have important mothers in our lives with whom we share not DNA but things that matter more: spirit, heart, and love.

Who doesn’t love a poem that trashes housekeeping in favor of epiphanies?

Have you ever paused before to think about what resurrection might mean, in excruciatingly human and biological terms, to the person being reborn? That is what “Easter” asks us to do.

Climate is a character in this week’s poem, “The Chill of Grace,” by Cathryn Shea. By way of a literary device known as personification, it attributes human qualities to nature, making the wind, for example, into something capable of feeling emotion.