We only say it correctly when we’re learning to spell it, a hint of brew, this month more soft-spoken than the last, and short – though Valentine roses’ petals fall before ice melts. Oh, some whisper it as a synonym for claustrophobia, closing down or slamming doors so fast that cold lurks abandoned out there where invisibles moan and something smelly hides under the front steps.Read more "February"
This rain pounds the arch hall with a glass roof, vexations of puddles over and above the axles, no time to witness how slowly the tulip emerges in curled lips like cups. Chills of wet hair.Read more "For the Young Who Are Afraid"
Much must. Old nut bearers, leaf returners. Old man forest and his just sprung wife. I have faith in those wild orange day lilies and forsythia, but Black-eyed Susans and stargazers have fooled me before.Read more "What Will Winter Over?"
The singing ingredient (two parts aria) is for the pumpkins, the gratitude moment when the seeds go in, the months cajoling vines up the pyramid of lath, celebrating bees in the fluted yellow flower, waiting for slow golding of the greenRead more "My Pumpkin Pie Recipe"
Witch Who said a witch need beas tall as me? I met a witchthinner than my fingerwho flew on moth wings. I asked her one or two things.She said her task was findingseeds to replant trees after wildfires I asked what is your name?She said she could not tellthose two words in her spell.She said I could […]Read more "Witch"
September This month cuts its own hair, the trees’ dream of going bald and old roses sport candelabras. The mosses cannot hold on as tightly as they did in June. The forsythia droops like a girl’s braids at the end of the first day of school. Black-eyed Susans flirt over the heads of dead-headed daisies. […]Read more "September"
August It is no easier to escape August than January – late summer lassitude bows the asters, curls the sunflowers just as the blizzard quiets winter. My hammock is my sled hurtling with frogs in first fall of alder leaves, swinging over plums fried on the patio, watching the squirrel choose soft figs over peanuts. […]Read more "August"
Reviews of Crime Novels from the First Half of This Year A night unsettled, creepy with rumbled omens. Lightning! Counting to the slam of sky collisions. Beneath a cone of lamplight, I turn the page to the solstice reviewer who tots up semi-annual sales pitches and slams of stories: mercenaries, billboard illustrators, rotting heiresses in […]Read more "Reviews of Crime Novels from the First Half of This Year"
Praise for a June Morning At half-dawn the male cardinal slams his beak against my bedroom window, time and again only to retreat every few minutes to trill his maleness. The mourning dove coo ooh oohs in the woods as a smooth breeze invites maple-greens to ride its flush – to suggest fresh is how […]Read more "Praise for a June Morning"
Let Things Slide in Corona Time Does the dust on the table matter so much? If the sun filtering through window highlights neglect. Do I count days from my last hairwash? When it hangs in locks of dread and the mirror declares it’s time. Vacuum up dog hair? So grateful to have dogs, comics who […]Read more "Let Things Slide in Corona Time"