Category: Seasons
-
Francisco stop
Francisco stop Cool, damp dawn air, soft thuds of platform planks, long row of barely kept garages, the alley easement, weedy vines finding life on the chain-linked fences running along the tracks and the wooden gates of tiny yards. The city has its own nature, breathing as it does in these quiet between times. A…
-
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.
-
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 