The rooms in the house seemed unfinished . . . 
as though something--or someone--was missing,
as though each room was lost in its own thoughts
amid the clutter and the dust
in the story a life.

Tie on a bit of frippery
before you lose the key.

It was the details 
that gave her pause . . . 
or had the details become muddled
because she didn't pause . . . 
or had her life simply become
one long, exhausted space?

Settled in a kettle
among the hills,
morning rises slowly,
leaving the sun
to its own
entertainment.

Then, she used words like
pericope and unassailable
she laughed often
and cherished a long walk
she possessed the will
to do the right thing;
now, her will was spent
getting through the day
to the solace of darkness
and the freedom of sleep.

You've reached the point in the story
in which the woman drops her disguise
and opens up her other pairs of spider eyes.

Where will you walk today--
the railroad trestle
or the sidewalk 
the footpath . . . 
on eggshells, perhaps?

Chicory, savory, rosemary, chives,
pennyroyal, salamander, lavender,
flies.

The repetition has the cadence of a death march

and you can't find a door much less the key to open it.

Prunings and trimmings
collect on the pyre, waiting
for the burn ban to lift
and summer to just let go. 

You wake up one day
and your life has changed
immeasurably;
it didn't happen overnight--
but you are so much older now
and you are on the other side
of a dream and you are, well,
nowhere.

Each night
a little longer
than the one before;
each morning
a slightly larger web
outside the door.

She thought about the vastness 
of the world, but the more terrifying
thought was the smallness of it--
its temporary nature--the subject
everyone avoided. 

The fawns' spots
have turned
to rain, their new
camouflage for fall.

At half-past too many things to do
and a quarter before uneasiness
she pauses to take a breath:
the air, much like the past,
wears a musty smell
she has not been able to conquer--
it's three years past yesterday, 
a few hours before tomorrow
when morning sun will shine brightly
on the defeat etched upon her face
and on the dust that masks
all the surfaces of her life.

Even before they ring the bell,
the evangelists have seen
right through my house
to the deer out back
quietly chewing their cud,
having gotten here first
to crop the rampant weeds.

So many years have gone by,
and still, she does the laundry
and holds the broom,
the washing machine hums
as yesterday's dirt spins
she whisks the week's remnants
out of the door into the sun--
the towel on which she wipes her face
cannot remember her name.

The ignition switch in my ankle
has been without a key for several days,
but that hasn't stopped other engines
from idling all through the night.

She pulled the stroller into the classroom
the older one on her hip
her backpack on her shoulder 
beads of sweat rested on her upper lip
and in a line down the back of her t-shirt
she did not try to cover the bruises
on her left arm or her right cheek
she did not make excuses 
her boyfriend had the car
she had taken the bus
she pulled the stroller into the classroom
the older one on her hip
her backpack on her shoulder
and she meant it.

My daughter checks
the oven for cats
before she turns it on--
Just in case, she explains, 
one never knows for sure. 

It is in the veins of the leaves
as they clatter down the street--
it is in the sycamore bark,
and the last blooms of summer,
ragged, pendulous, and nearly forgotten--
it is in the way everything darkens
and a cool, gray wind blows
and swallows the sun--
it is the trouble with autumn.

Vandals strip the shutters
from the abandoned Fun House door
and use the faded wood to build
wheels that set the night in motion.

We must fight what we know
to know more--if we walk
in yesterday's shadow,
growth is not possible.

Some days you are lucky,
and your argument makes it
through the wash
despite its shoddy seams.

My inability to make a decision 
has taken me several places
that were not my intent--
I am in the plains with road signs 
pointing in every direction--
I am in the middle 
with so many possibilities 
I will not take.

Through the laundry room window
at the opposite end of the house,
drifts a note of discord
in the coyote chorus,
which means we'll sleep
soundly tonight while other clans
sort and fold their differences.

C'mon let me hold you, let me heal you,
just like you did for me so many years ago
as time raced too fast past us
and we grew older--
I'll hang your worries in the cellar
where you can't see them
I'll pack your troubles in a suitcase 
and send them far away
I'll put your dreams in my heart
for safe keepin'--
c'mon let me hold you,
let me heal you.

Reading Tender Buttons
in the Quaker meeting room--
out there on the prairie,
winter wheat's first sprout.

In an ordinary moment
on an ordinary day,
you will push through your troubles
as you have until this day;
but, this time, you will follow the questions
and pursue them without fear,
until the sky breaks 
and a robin sings the answers.

A weary garden spider rides
a zip line to your pillow,
entrusting you with the last
of her eggs on her last
day of summer.

I have taken far too many journeys
to have a single history
I have far too many families 
to know who I am 
I've lived far too many places
to know where home is
I possess far too many memories
to have an undisturbed mind--
or to get up in the morning
and know exactly what to do.

Wandering through an empty
house tonight--
the past, the future already
fast asleep.

Brown, of course, is sadness, and gray is indecisiveness; 
red is the color of anxiety and black is the color 
of confidence and yellow is the color 
that wakes us up in the morning--blue
is the color of the oceans and 
it is over our heads--purple is the color 
of everlasting harmony, 
but you knew that, didn't you?

Stars settle on the hulls
of our beached canoes,
waiting for morning
to wash them all
back into the lake.

The problem is that we're angular
not circular--remember Yeats' gyres--
look at us when we walk
look at the lines--
check out those cheekbones.

It wasn't clover in the lawn this time
that made us see the Milky Way,
it was the very thing itself
looking down at us
in our own dark wilderness.

Of course the color of possibility is green . . . 
what other color could it be?

Because we had prepared
to leave so much behind,
the border agent let us go
with everything we carried.

Cloudy days make promises 
but aren't always able 
to deliver.

While talking
to the Bullock's oriole
in its own language,
you will meet
a handsome stranger
in yourself.

The old house slims down
for winter . . . it quakes
and cracks, adjusts--
releases summer's steam.

Leaving the house,
coming home--
changing reasons,
changing weather.

Ribbons of sunlight 
mask my regrets
as dust motes dance
in flawless light
in praise of the day
and yet another chance 
to make things right.

That instead of this
all day long, the next
in line more brilliant,
the one you should
have spoken.

We are reading
we are silent and happy
far from the huff and hiss 
of the highway--
miles from the sting and snare
of the everyday, 
we are reading 
we are silent and happy.

Two lifeboats adrift
on a landlocked sea,
our lines entangled
in flotsam and weeds.

These days it's not good enough
to know the answers . . .
we must know the pages
they are on as well . . .
let's keep those prognosticators
from lift-off . . .

The front door opens
like a pop-up book cover
to  reveal a tired character
unfolding her creased face
and hands before slipping
away into a better story.

This is no dress rehearsal--
it may even be borrowed time--
we must know our lines
and how to deliver them.

There are many ways to ruin a life;
keeping a list is number one.

There is a difference 
between dust and neglect--
and perhaps some day
I will understand where 
to draw the line.

This morning we caught wonder
drunk on the lawn,
trying to solve today's puzzle
before it had been written.

All the pieces fit together so perfectly;
all one could do was 
tousle them about
and begin again.

We repeat the vow daily,
that two shall act as one,
then step over the threshold
in mismatched shoes.

Road signs are good
but they can't tell you a story,
maps tell you where to go
but can't explain what to do
when you get there;
friends are forgiving,
but books are more so--
books answer my questions
and are never defensive 
they are welcoming
and never angry . . . 
they take me to places
I've never been
and explain what to wear
and what not to eat,
they teach me how to camp
and how to build a fire-- 
they rescue me from drowning,
they tell me to poke a shark 
in the eye.

Frozen by the freedom
to choose a perfect escape.

I walk past the counter
talking to myself--
I am taking the good lines
and putting them where they belong
I will pour my coffee, 
sit at my favorite table,
and words will spill onto the page
faster than my hand can write.

At the end of the day
the tree you thought
you'd climbed into the sky
is just a toothpick
you've been twirling
in your fingers.

Morning dew glistens on each blade of grass
as I pull weeds around holly and aster;
I bend and stretch into the morning,
breathe and exhale and breathe
in the pastel scent of the tea roses
as I bend and stretch into the morning,
exhale and breathe
in the scent of peppers and tomatoes
earthy and strong,
breathe to remember this morning
in all its perfection. 

The clumsy, old squirrel in the Douglas fir
fumbles one cone after another,
watches each one crash the hundred feet
to the forest floor, all the while chittering
that he meant to do just that,
to startle us to attention,
that what he was starving for
wasn't food after all.