The robin and the blue jay squared off this afternoon:
the robin so plump he appeared to be tilted
as he hopped across the grass
then abruptly stopped as is his habit;
the jay, averting his eyes as though  
he did not see the robin before him
pushed ahead boldly,
but robin stood his ground,
likely having heard the rumor 
that jays eat eggs and nestlings--
blue jays are actually vegetarians,
but you know how rumors are. . .
the jay raised his wings in flight.

Unfinished drawings don't mind
being left out in the damp,
having a little wine
spilled on them from time to time;
this merely serves to enliven
the ink, make the images think
they can complete themselves.

It was so rhythmic even the aftershock
sounded like a mouse bounding
down the hall from one end of the house
to the other--then, to know the origin
of the earthquake was in the next state,
yes, that gave me pause.

Halfway between the accident and the ER,
at the wasp waist of the island,
the rain suddenly stops
so we can clearly see on either side
the Cascades, the Olympics
carving their jagged routes
through the soft Sunday sky.

Brambles and roots nettle the creek bank,
but needn't know their purpose:
they cannot grow wrong.

A red tail sails over the treetops;
the ducks, grazing,
scattered across the lawn,
see it first, stand motionless a moment,
leaning, heads canted
to get a better look, then quickly,
skillfully gather themselves up
like a handful of jacks,
three, six, nine,
before the hawk ever thinks
of touching the ground.

It occurs to me, once again,
that it takes more than just direction
to walk away.

A basket of bright copper
toilet floats, a bowl
full of boomerangs,
and a sudden fondness
for the difficult year
spent obeying
a random order.

A dry web of sand is all that remains of the creek; 
the ground sprouts clusters of grass along the banks
as the bones of bottles adapt to the wind: they whisper
softly in the afternoon sun.  

A thousand knotted fists,
plus two, arrayed to catch
the falling sky.

Unacknowledged loss slips in through an open window,
reminds her it is time to grieve.

Applying words
like salve
to a burn;
this is only
one of many
possible arrangements.

It made her happy to see the fat little robin
hopping around in the front yard
or on a branch in the backyard, his mistress
close behind; robins, the first birds of spring,
told her it was time to let go,
time to spread her own wings
and begin again.

I was a junior bride's maid once,
standing witness behind my sunburned nose,
riding to the reception in a rented convertible,
watching, when it was all over, her white dress
sway from the ceiling harp in my bedroom,
where she had hung it like a trophy.

It was still too cold to garden,
so she stared out the window
each day longingly, thinking of seeds 
and dirt and making things grow; 
why wouldn't winter 
just step back respectfully?

Each day a new spring
rises, swells, then sinks
back into itself, back into
the blind forever.

Of course it's easier than explaining;
tucked in your hip pocket,
yesterday keeps you moving.

Tree frogs,
voices without bodies,
spaces between budding-out branches,
arrows poised in opposite directions,
ice shards culled from the pool,
a lost document of winter,
my boarding pass home,
waiting to be printed.

The 3-pointer is, of course,
a winning metaphor
dribbling, otherwise known
as iambic pentameter,
comes just before
the swoosh of onomatopoeia,
the arc and dunk must be simile,
and basketball, no doubt,
is poetry.

The day I flew out to visit my daughter
an eagle dropped in for one of my ducks;
I didn't sleep for two days running
the terrible scene my husband described
again and again through my head,
but then duck sausages were the grand-opening
special at the new butcher shop, so I took four
back to my daughter and cooked them for dinner;
the day after that, compliments of the chef at a fledging
restaurant featuring New American cuisine,
duck neck croquettes served on very small but very beautiful plates;
when I told my husband about the culinary adventures
I was sharing with our daughter, he said he thought
it was too soon, he said he might start to cry,
so I said no, please don't, 
but I should have said yes, please do, 
because nothing, not even grief, should ever be wasted.

Spring sputters and stops. . .
revs up again
and hums for just a bit,
proffers a bouquet of daffodils,
then stumbles
around the corner
leaving us gaping
in her wake.

Homesick for the homesick days
of our first years in Kansas,
and the perfect way we spent  those days
planning our next escape up north.

Early mornings when grass begins to whisper,
wearing a threadbare robe and morning mist 
she bends for yesterday's news knowing
yesterday's news is dead;
she reads it still, clinging to her coffee mug
as though it might save her.

Among the usual hours
this one is most usual--
the one in which the puppeteer
begins to tire and wonder if
she'd even carved the proper
characters to begin with.

To the box of words I go,
pull out a fistful. . .
toss them into the air
they become falling stars--
watch them arc
and glimmer.

On our way to Kansas City,
the two of us, my daughter and  me,
an egress of egrets caught up
in the ghost trees of El Dorado.

Play someone else's part
for as long as you like-
no one will stop you
if you prefer pretense 
to purpose.

Eyes closed, wide awake,
joyriding the graffiti-streaked
emerald line, trackless,
through the heart of the Flint Hills.

Just when you think
you've mastered time, 
it swallows you.

The sky consumes the prairie
in one vast gulp,
Wichita a morsel left
on the edge of my plate.

When we used our whole house
meals were cooked and beds were made
floors were swept and shelves were dusted
appointments were kept and dogs were walked,
and I was at the center spinning, driving, spinning,
dizzy with the everything of it all.

I snake back in
my Kansas skin
before I reach
the border.

The days unfurl themselves
tumbling end over end
as though trying
to escape the week.

A girl dressed in black with red buttons on her sleeves
one thousand one
one thousand two
one thousand three
crosses the street, leaving her group of friends behind,
one thousand one
one thousand two
one thousand three
one of ten anonymous things I love has died.

I awaken blurry-eyed,
try to catch the morning,
but it upends me
into an afternoon
devoid of light
that twists too fast
into night.

Not a single headstone knows
your name yet, so run along
and don't get into any mischief.

And when there is sun,
you will feel better or worse
you will do what you must
you will feel sicker or poorer
or richer and perhaps in good health,
and the redbuds will bloom,
as a matter of course, 
in one night 
and you will breath deeply
when you see them 
and then remember
you are alone.

The first Rufous Hummingbirds
to arrive from the south
gerrymander their new districts,
excluding the resident Anna's
from every drop of nectar.

Verdurous tufts and the tips of hyacinth
push through dried grass and barren ground
beneath a deliberate sun, the heavy sighs 
of winter all but forgotten.

Can you trust the luck offered
by a cricket on the hearth
when it's cast in solid brass
and its hind legs stay attached
with Phillips-head screws?

Most days she sat in a chair 
staring through the window, 
looking at sky through the trees
waiting for something
even she could not name,
waiting for something 
she was mostly sure 
had ceased to exist.

The local meteorologist, understanding the long half life
of our collective gloom, cheerfully predicts
a couple of nice days in a row;
we are free to provide our own exclamation points.

Today, as I prune the branches of yesterday and move the earth from here to there and back again, I'll let the crazy-healing-sunshine do its job as I contemplate the meaning of the last 12 months, perhaps even the last 55 years:  I'll hold them in my hand, cradle them as though they were my children, then I'll pinch myself to make sure it isn't just a dream-- as the day breathes the lyrics of Bob Dylan across my shoulders: "It ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe, it don't matter anyhow. It ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe, if ya don't know by now; don't think twice, it's alright."

One day shrinks; the next one 
explodes in clouds of pollen,
frogs rasping in trees, so high up 
we don’t even hope to see them.

You know what time it is. . .it's crazy-healing-sunshine-get-those-hands-in-the-dirt-and-stop-talkin'-about-it-time. . . breathe in that pollen and set yourself free. . .

The afternoon, having lost that winter weight,
stretches out its new, slender shadow.

Clockwork: 

an hour of time

disappears

just.like.that.

The way time hinges on place,

then doubles back on itself,

like a carpenter’s folding yardstick.

I can hear them behind me
and when I turn around
there they are
scrambling at my heels,
all those years
making a racket
trying to catch up,
and, as usual,
I am attempting to outrun them--
even so,
I am eager to add another one
to the pack.

Once again, panic opens my gut
like a book; this time, I think,
I’ll crack the spine, turn past
the tissue-thin opening pages,
maybe even begin to write
a complete concordance.

We harvest loose ends, pray our children still believe
they're invicible, if only for a while;
let them remain unaware of our blunders,
our frequent leaps of faith, our way
of composing order as we go.

I spent several hours late last night
stumbling in the dark backstage,
trying to figure out why I’d been cast
as Baba Yaga in Swan Lake (Swan Lake?)
and wondering why I had never bothered
to memorize my lines.

As if it were really us and them--
as if            any of us could say
how life should be
as if            from a point of satiation
we were able to know the world.

Two bristlecone pines leaning--
for entirely different reasons--
into the same shrill wind,
well-disciplined in keeping
the other’s secrets and in raising
a single shadow.

The branches, heavy with ice, creaked and swayed;
one by one, they splintered and fell
until only heartwood remained--
we lay in our beds, listening, waiting
for the next branch to drop.

The sky rushing in from the coast
is pure Kansas, the clouds
flying over in a hurry to be
someplace else, which makes
the answer to your question--
Are we home yet?--
a resounding yes.

In those days, my fists clinched a single oar   
I was never sure         never really sure          
how to survive the marsh       rafting on driftwood         
snakes              rattling in the distance       
though sometimes        I splashed across the swamp
and rattled            right back at them.

Our village by the sea,
our little music box--
when you wind us up,
our grey whales pirouette
in the passage, someone
rings the bell, the boy
bends down to pet his dog,
everyone is happy.

We wore hip boots             beneath a dizzying hot sun
in lazy grasses             we tugged nets
where Baptist preachers moan          and speak in tongues,
where ibis hunk and squeal        near sparrow song.

The deck chairs are chewing
their pine-needle cud,
carrying on the conversation
you and I abandoned late last fall.

She gazed through the ice crystals on her window,
searching desperately for a new perspective.

Be prepared to find
the body of a songbird
when you set a trap
for a seed-filching rat.