Little hen lay young silkie eggs—
at your tender age we find
occasional cream-shelled eggs about
(half-usual size!).
How you like
to scratch a nest
under the bramble hedge
on the sunny side.
Crack a mini egg
and feel a pang—
none of us crave
breaking up
your casual clutch
but a doll’s breakfast
seems cause enough
to celebrate.
To this pleasing end
we steal from you
and give thanks.
Like some good painters
from memory
I try and sew
simple topography—
stitch by stitch
an island approached by sea.
Through chance
or use
I wore weak
the world.
This wool shawl
gray and gauze-thin
softly wraps out morning.
Shaken against the light
it proves
time-eaten,
a fading constellation
of pin holes
and areas
worn clear through.
Almost invisible
each darn
over-under
a child’s potholder
in miniature,
dense to the touch, rough,
a blip on the map.
If I had fine wool … Continue Reading ››
This bubble
small as a bead
descends slow,
double now
in my kitchen window.
How did you find me
so far
from washing-up?
The iridescent soup
you issued from
long gone,
the life of a bubble
o-shaped,
an open end.
I’ll pack
tomorrow’s lunch
and turn
to let you descend indefinitely.
Some phenomena
hold notice longer
than form,
some just float away.
Through the pine forest
our goddess
scratches a path—
one hundred yards
through sand
to the sea of “blue champagne
and milk.”
One ancient pine
stands sentinel
over the old stone slab
that tilts us, warm,
toward waves
that tenderly eat the shore.
I lived in an orchard
in the sun-green society
of leaves. The shade
lures me under trees still
for long stretches
when the sky
withholds rain
and the season
threatens fire
and the birds
mistake my open back door
for open air.
Meet you
on the avenue
of one hundred fountains—
may the fountains
mist our hair.
In the place
where moss
softens ruins,
new greens unfasten
amidst ferns,
spout delicate
on the rims of pools
and the water
from the mouths
of fountains falls,
movement a sound.
Deep green Victorian
hot house plants
crowd the glass—
left these long years
to press
wet against
this derelict storefront,
almost black
at sunset,
a suffocation of leaves.
From this redwood-shake cabin set down on a forest slope a blue puff of woodsmoke sent up through redwood trunks and sharp rays of autumn sun— from the little stack, this watchfire in the rough.
