Love does not care
if the mirror tells the truth.
It simply sits with
whichever version shows up,
smiles to itself, and nods.

 

Our room cools quickly
when the sun leaves each evening.
We lean now toward
the fire to coax warmth back
from the other side of Earth.

She sets the glasses 
with art -- height, color, shape --
sun rolls off edges
and through transparencies,
then chooses one
                                    just for me.

Note: This is one of Georgia O'Keefe's kitchen shelves, which looked so much like my grandmother's. 

Hidden away,
as if in a magic lamp
that we rub and rub,
life comes to us bit by bit,
shows us who we may become.

Note: This image is taken from a photo of my father, probably about age four (1936-ish). Hard to believe he was ever so little.

I crawl in and curl
through inner twists, and points
that stick out like legs.
You say, 'An odd little home!'
I say, 'It fits well, for now.'

A river runs through
each moment, each unknown bend
carrying us --
jumbled, perhaps mud-soaked --
toward, with all that we love.