Apr 26 2017

laying the table
for summer’s picnic

in a brief dawn moment
when i remembered
not to forget

to look down

to notice

three favorite flowers


(a poem in a name)

(a poem of a flower)

and i smiled
all day




Apr 25 2017

how high’s the water, mama?

there are so many things i cannot reach
so many miracles behind glass and
roses i’ll never cultivate
and all these days filled with bugs
and better thans and never enoughs

there is always that sky
through the tall short-lived poplars
growing faster than posterity

there is always a kitten
causing trouble in a field
of grey mice

there is always hope and
always love
(that cliche of a word
even poets
can’t define)

and this one
grape hyacinth
growing stubborn
along the road
refusing to care
if i notice




Apr 24 2017

the bones of her face

mirror-moon and barely broken
downward dog and faintly spoken

i am hollow
i am raw
i am forgotten

i am refusal and predication
spitting out bitters
and smiling at wind-loose shutters

this is age and
this is mo(u)rning

and the narcissistic
will never reveal
the long-etched key
to revival





Apr 21 2017


prom dress pretty
and filled
with fresh hope

the irony
of this tall vase of tulips
all bare and innocent
amidst kitchen-table clutter
and the convoluted
of a too-busy week

but these are my days
and no matter how messy

there are always flowers

sometimes fresh

sometimes dying

sometimes too long
past gone
for shame’s sake


always a smile

on a short-sheet friday

and life’s
funny bone

silk purse
sow’s ear
and all that




Apr 19 2017


i spent a year

to grief and

hope and

i lost my voice
in the sound
of life
moving on

or death
pounding hooves
down fresh
black pavement

i’m here
on the
other side
of something



to storm
and blossom

holding stories
in a heart

scarred from




Apr 11 2017

soldiering on and
other maladies

in the garden there is a tree that leans
oh so far to the right
(from where i sit)
and i smile at the audacity
of this refusal to break
this will to survive
this pugnacious affront
to convention

i write poems about age
(or simply think them)
understanding that crooked
is a different kind of tenacity
and the temerity of youth
is just blossom

mostly i remember
the silence
of a morning
meant for forgiveness
and the stars on that night
we walked to saturn

the birds eat berries
left long on winter branches
gone sweet with the yearning
to be free




Apr 8 2017

snow, drop

clinging hard to the dance of dawn, delayed

and you can lie
belly up to the cold grey sky
letting go of all fear
til the hawk comes tapping
on one shoulder

nothing between us,
no shield,
no field,
nothing filling the corners
with debris

just these bold
reflection curves
and mist-mirrored

holding court
in a forest
of fancy




Apr 6 2017

the way you stand so tall

in the mirror of everything
sky raining down around you
in a pattern of potential
with the fortitude of grace
dripping cold from
squared-off shoulders
as if sunshine
could be ordered and




Aug 17 2016

morning, glory



all settled in

to the confine

of vine

and blooming

just the same




Aug 12 2016

behind the scenes at
the center of everything

there is this heat you wear like a blanket

there is this weight you carry in a pocket made from penance

there is silence in the mist of white noise

there is sanctuary