you, broad elm,
shaved down to earth –
I stand now
on your great stump, yearn to be
your medium, tell what you will
-
Day 26
-
Day 25
I claim I know
who I am and how, what
to write down,
but nighttime, wet snow falling
presses me on that point -
Day 24
a clean sheet of paper
hides every sin, each fumble
and misspelling,
so you think God spoke to me
clean through, that I am innocent -
Day 23
I wonder
if the beams from streetlights
singe
your fine needles, exhaust you,
if only true dark can heal you -
Day 22
rushing her work,
damp snow plunges through night air,
knowing full well
her fate is to dissolve and
river-away come morning -
Day 21
when you tell of youth,
and risk, and being bold,
you do not reveal
the cloister in your heart —
how even now it hides itself
Poems from in between 