Category: Garden
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Bunkhouse mornings
The forest floor crackles, catching dribbles from above. A breeze shifts, fresh spray showers the twigs and dried leaves. I can smell that rain and those damp, quieting mornings, cool moss under my feet. The blue jay’s harsh, long cawk, intrusive. Why did they not swoop down on us? The breeze builds through high branches,…
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My window at night, vi
Dark light dark light dark light dark light aspen leaves flip and turn back and forth and around, soft sequins mirroring the six-sided moon, imperceptible, but just enough to slow time, open hazy wonder — dark light dark light dark light dark light dark light —
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My window at night, iv
Breathe air into my words. Give them spaciousness, room to roam and be flexed, to be held, warmed, to have fingers run across them, pausing, to know the sense of being swallowed bit by bit, or held on the tongue. Let them open up onto the prairie to play in all the adventure of the…
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Four haiku on the August garden
I. Four white roses bud in the scorching August sun with care, confidence. II. The sun loots our patch in its hegemonic rage. We defend this space. III. Rain, drench us through. The heat swells, crackles, moans — grant your persuasion. IV. Four white roses bud in the soulless August sun, pressing their case.
Poems from in between 