Category: Nature
-
Top of the White Trail
The first sense you have is of the isolation and how disorienting it feels to not see anyone, even a stranger.
-
My window at night, v
Is it time yet? As I study you, I think not. You have decided not to show yourself, and I can see no further into you. Let us wait together, and here and there take turns teasing, poking, putting on — and perhaps by accident reveal a surprise to us both. —————————- This is part…
-
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…
-
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.
-
The poet’s house
Spare enough for frozen flower branches to scratch the icy kitchen window, rain-soaked goldenrod to brush against her dress, evenings of lost, tender fears spying down the empty lane, long, hot afternoon delays, awaiting a dry spell to take up the mowing, the mending, the swinging. Wide open, ever-joyful tedium. The birches down the pasture…
-
End of season
It is as I notice the half-used garlic bulb on the window sill, papers torn and frayed,
Poems from in between 