The things we thought we needed 
stand before us, empty, 
covered in dust.

We fatten the rats
simply by existing
in a clearing
on their land;
we kill them
and toss them
back into the woods
and cry over
our wastefulness.

How could I know
that you had been taking notes
all those years--
saving those little scraps
for today,
an ordinary summer day,
how could I know?

I know a day like today
comes once in a lifetime,
just like any other day
back on the open prairie.

It was your mother's funeral,
yet we could barely restrain
our laughter as each person
that passed the casket
said, "she looks
so good . . ." oh,
the irony of everything.

A funnel of light
falls through
a momentary lapse
in the perfect arrangement
of clouds.

Remember the time we rode
the horses bareback
and saw an alligator--
how we raced home
through tangled brush
frightened, laughing
so hard at each other
we could barely breathe--
remember me?

I can see
through this wall
and will still
tear it down
so that you
will no longer
need to walk
around.

Oh, how the words twist
and turn,
and sometimes tumble
from our mouths,
as they lift the sky
and swallow the sun.

When the geologist died, his wife held
a yard sale to be rid of the collection
that had weighed her down for longer
than she cared to remember;
I gave her a quarter, maybe more,
(such are the things I'm likely to forget)
for a portion of his bounty:  a handful of small,
water-smoothed rocks, which I keep
on the sill above my kitchen sink,
having carried them with me house to house,
state to state, decade to decade, and bathe
each day to see again what he saw
when he first pulled them from the river.

She is concerned for my eternal soul 
and that of my family; 
she says she prays that I will come to know
the eternal truth 
because she wants to see me
in the hereafter--
of course, she could visit me now
before I'm dead,
she could ask me what my beliefs are,
instead
she could have asked me
how I was doing.

We rush home
laughing at the tide
trying to catch us
with beach stones
in our pockets.

My son gave me the numbers--
the science of it all--
in a clean line he declared the facts;
I explained that mothers
do not limit their decisions
to science--we prepare for 
the unexpected; we prepare for
the everything of it all.  

We dropped a few rough words
here and there along the way,
thinking we'd return some day
and find that they'd been polished.

After the rain, nature's offering:
107 cherry tomatoes,
30 Romas
7 Juliets
4 Heirloom
3 cucumbers
2 jalapenos
1 lb of swiss chard, 
and too much kale 
to count.  

High summer, sleeping
with the windows open
and the urgent need
to hear the owl
from the other side
of dreaming.

It is like walking the ledge of a tall building,
say, the fifteenth floor,
inching along to find an open window--
then, realizing there are no doors
in the room you've stepped into:
climbing back onto the ledge
is your only means of survival.

Some choring,
some choiring
are required
to meet the dawn.

She kept reaching for yesterday
trying to bring it to the forefront--
it was as though she'd forgotten
the essence of time.

One by one, the old farmhouse chairs
wander off to the woods,
no longer afraid of woodpeckers
or the scent of smoldering ash.

It was hard to keep the ship afloat
despite the calm sea.

Morning draws a wild card,
passes it under the table
for the afternoon to play.

Throughout the day she told herself
that everything would be okay;
sometimes she had a hard time
believing herself.

Another Sunday
machined
to perfection.

Who was she in those days--
so smart yet so naive,
with only her mother's strong will
and her father's boisterous personality
to guide her?

Even the days
I don't look
at the calendar
are named,
numbered,
and stored
for future reference.

In truth, life only happens to the young 
and under-prepared . . .
the rest of us must reach out 
every morning
and pull life back to our airspace
as it begins to shuttle away.

A sliver of sunlight
quavers through
the hours left bottled
on the shelf.

I keep waiting for my life to begin, 
as though life
is something that does not require 
my participation--

I'm beginning to believe
the beast consuming
the final fiber of my nerve
has a large and hungry family
waiting for it
to come back home.

When regret and resentment arm wrestle, 
regret always wins--resentment 
cannot keep up with the facts.

I was never good at finding
four-leaf clovers
or enough reason
to stop looking after dark.

You always think you’re closer to the top
than you are—in the dark, it seems
there is always one more step.

The lizard has found its way
back to my chain of charms.

A tangle of tomato vines 
and my restless hands--
anchoring stems
looking beneath leaves
pulling weeds
everything green--
how content I am
on a cloud-filled
rainy day.

We devour the salt that remains
after we wash away the sea.

A polar vortex in the Great Lakes
has shushed summer's heat,
cast a favorable shadow across the plains,
sent cool breezes to dance in the streets.

The hour overflows
the thimble-sized glass
we've set out for it.

Along a line of weakness, 
a butterfly breaks through its cocoon
with time . . . and breath.

A minus tide strips
the clam beds of their covers;
we tear through their mattresses
and pirate all their treasures.

Life is the tenor;
you are the vehicle--
you.must.move.

I know a woman who eats
abandoned cats for breakfast
and posts gorgeous pictures
of her favorite meals.

It was like pulling a rope from your throat . . .
the room suddenly brighter with your defenses
and for those few moments, we were electric.

Now I know that
when I apply
adequate pressure
to your faults,
I can make
a perfect rock.

She told the stories long enough 
that she believed them herself,
words spilled sideways from her lips
as she spoke;
now and then 
I saw a glint of recognition as her eyes
met mine, but she moved on--
she always moved on--sideways,
did she hope I hadn't noticed
or not care if I did?

An oriole repeats
its lost mate's trill,
water climbs
back up the cliff,
the calendar reads
itself to sleep
and never finishes
the chapter.

Silk plants and disloyal friends,
items in boxes that had waited much too long to be used,
clothing that no longer fit and books I didn't like;
I rid myself of all things untrue
then said to the rest of my belongings
"We need to believe in each other . . . "

It's easy to find
heart-shaped rocks;
it's hard to make
them shine.

She made them eggs 
and kissed their foreheads
before they left that morning;
she watched them walk out 
into the world together
wrapped in her love.

The hat check clerk
claims my mechanical heart
might set off the alarm
and offers to hold it
for the evening.

Lost in the middle of an hour
in the middle of the day
I will look both ways
before crossing . . .

Summer stalks in
like a feral cat,
then disappears
before we can get
a closer look.

Use your candles and whisper to find your way.

Why won't you listen
when I tell you to put
figs in the pudding?--
it's already July,
and the days are beginning
to close in on winter.

My parents' voices 
echo across the decades:
my mother's voice
brown and dissatisfied,
my father's voice
rich and comforting--
I am both of them,
and yet, I am neither.

Spring holds court
through the Fourth,
watching summer struggle
to gain independence.

When people divorce,
it is a windy day 
and their hair is a mess . . . 
they can't remember 
where they are going
and they always forget
where they came from . . .
when people divorce
they pull the blinds down
they need new glasses
and the roof begins to leak . . .
when people divorce
the world asks
invisible questions.

Five new beds filled
with air and plans
for a bounty beyond
any reasonable desire.

Details had been her specialty;
and she was the best, people said,
but the particulars had turned on her--
her life had become one long pause
between the details--
"How did this happen?" 
she wondered aloud as she stacked them
neatly next to her bed, 
in the kitchen, on top of the desk
and in boxes in the basement--
one day she would get to them.

The mail arrives wrapped
in damp spider silk
and news to keep me
spinning for a week.

There is a closet in your room
where you store your secrets
in the pocket of a jacket
you used to wear . . .
the shoulders were as straight
as your life was once
and you smile to think 
of the glow you wore 
in that jacket
in that life.

If you wish to pack
every possible future
into a single lifetime,
I suggest you begin
with a breakfast
of white rabbits.