Raspberries in June He asks me to come by, read her some of my garden poems at four o’clock. June sun will be high and hot through the windows in her hospital room. She may sleep. The surgeons opened up her abdomen from stern to pubes and poked through the curves, bends, folds and hiding […]Read more "Raspberries in June"
Whooping Cough, 1952, Age 5 I was not trusted to climb eighteen pink stairs without fainting. I carried a porcelain bell. Not trusted with just the washable yellow robe (carry the green towel for cough ups). My chest seemed so small I didn’t know I had a heart. I didn’t trust the brown Zenith radio […]Read more "Whooping Cough, 1952, Age 5"
Ode to Slow I appreciate slow after speeding bullets, ground records, and the turbulence of climate change. Like slow food, Zafu pillows sold online, apps that ring mellow gongs to end minutes of mindfulness. Three-toed sloths live too far away for me to know. Slugs move at night on my lettuce, chewing. Rockfall and glaciers […]Read more "Ode to Slow"
Cinderella Doesn’t Live Here Anymore No. Her feet no longer hurt from dancing and romancing. She’s left her slippers behind, her mirror unsilvered. Her castle roof leaked. Knocking winds found cracks in the casements. Her prince died in her arms of gout. Her twin sons fled their home after his funeral, chased by two uncles […]Read more "Cinderella Doesn’t Live Here Anymore"
She Who Knits in the Buddhist Monastery Her bare toes nudge the barn floor from her caned rocking chair. Her fingers knit stripes, cables of mantle and crust, riffs of watersheds running down to ruffled-water blue binding. Ribbed fabric slumps around her knotted calves like lazy Vermont mountains. I pass near her. I hear a […]Read more "She Who Knits in the Buddhist Monastery"
lo·ca·vore noun NORTH AMERICAN a person whose diet consists only or principally of locally grown or produced food Seek out poets who call your place home. They walk your streets, observe the fantasies and foibles of your governor, know when your trees bloom or when they burn. Even if poets make myth or tell stories […]Read more "lo·ca·vore"
Fortune Cookies for the Twenty-First Century Be grateful you can breathe. Encourage flowers to shrink to seeds. Your horrible secret? Tell it to a dog. The lover you seek knows your secret. When six vultures show up in a newly hayed field, assume there are dead rodents. If your cell phone tells you your weight, […]Read more "Fortune Cookies for the Twenty-First Century"
The kiwis ripen in winter. The begins. After cosmic things finished big banging each other. Eve grew weary of the confines of a garden, followed the vine with her eye beyond the hill to the next valley. Adam got busy naming things with the in front over and over again, noun-ness, thus-ness he understood with practice. kiwis sprawl on a […]Read more "The kiwis ripen in winter."
October Doleful Calm: only one leaf flutters at a time, not warning, a whisper. The setting sun slunk to hide behind the hills and for one minute maple leaf shadows dance on our blank wall. Your phone caught it as video. Chickadees show no fear at the birdbath near where I rocked away the summer […]Read more "October Doleful"
In the Shadow of the Bell Tower After Ralph Waldo Emerson I seek refuge from the ferocious sun, this unpredictable, unbreakable humidity, on a cool stone bench with engraved words to trace with fingertips. To fill the hour… You walk by with sweat on your cheeks. I nod to the space next to me. You […]Read more "In the Shadow of the Bell Tower"