“In Carolyn Guinzio’s poems, amid the trees, leaves, squirrels, deer, cicadas, the house, the laptop, milk and children, the elderly and doctors, there is always… this… persistent something. As Guinzio steps forward in the poem’s line, then takes one step back to insist and repeat, the something beneath becomes clear: it is bone, shadow, and ash. The dead. An end. Oblivion. Yet an end to things does not shape her poems into vessels for grief and sinking sorrow; it is, rather, the material of life, itself. Even oblivion maintains a sweet movement of its own. For Guinzio, to leave no trace is “not the white of surrender, / but the green of remember: / You are one in a line of many.” Thank you, Carolyn Guinzio, for this astonishing reminder.”