Speckled and brown
as a cactus wren egg
the tea bowl you made
sits light
in my two hands
veiled in steam.
Category Archives: Published
O. avosetta
Tonight we rest
in tiny petal nests,
too new
to frisk.
Sealed, we wait
our stretch of days,
a stronger build,
the fresh felt will
to take the air.
One Wild Quail Egg
So dappled I suppose
you meant to hide,
safe under scrub
on the hillside.
Who lost you here
so near my door?
Egg Song
New laid in the hayloft
warm and well
sunup and stuck
with straw
all rosy shell.
Islands and Skylines
From this once wild place we gaze
south, the bay soft
with sea fog
and slow moving clouds.
A lone barge, far-off
as a plane,
plies its silent route
to port, the city
a cut-out, pastel and unreal
from this windswept, golden hill.
My One True Ocotillo
So dry, all spine—
I thought maybe you died,
but with the rain
you’re armored
in tiny leaves again.
I like the way you hold your flowers
just above the moon,
my one true ocotillo,
carefully scribbled
against the sky.
Not a Shadow to Scare
Allow for a boy
on his wide range
who fashions lassos
from stripped ostrich feathers.
Even on his slow mount, the high heat
makes life hard to see.
Noon, and the pheasants
(fat thoughts on the Pampas)
slip up suddenly,
in twos
and threes,
noosed
and so easily.
Catching a Ride
In no rush
to hold up the sky,
we lull the low hills
into folding the afternoon
across the road home.
Later, we’ll collect fog
in the valley below,
but for now I’m working
on floating my hand
on the currents
outside my window.
Soft-Shelled
We feel the waves
before they arrive.
Though our thinner shells
make us more alive
to pain—we can’t help
but let the world in.
Not a Lizard, Not a Mouse
You may need
some small life
carried loosely
in the mouth
to warble the sounds
trapped in the floorboards
of your house—the hard part
will be hunting one down.