What is life 
if not 
things left undone?

Drumming high in a hollow cedar,
a Pileated sounds its mate across the ravine;
after fifty-seven false starts,
our day finally has a rhythm.

When the lunch crowd comes,
I leave
preferring the breakfast crowd:
the smell of coffee and burnt sugar
to the smell of grill
and the sound of hurry. . .
the breakfast crowd crinkles
their newspapers
the old men smile
over the steam of their coffee.

We could let this moment storm over,
or we could ride its eye
until it makes landfall.

The skeletal remains of elapsed yesterdays
lay before her. . . surely 
she could fashion one more life for herself
with all those bones.

After the cold morning rain
steam rises from the garden
like some kind of tropical joke.

I am between here and there,
standing in the shadows
pretending to breathe.

Rocks pop up like dandelions
planted by the last glacier
and wait for the next one
before they'll go to seed.

I can't come any closer,
something could break
I will hold you at arm's length--
we will all be safer for it--
the pages will turn
to the same old story:
the book will read itself.

A pair of golden eagles,
a double wedding ring,
an eternal pattern
wearing thin.

It's 97 degrees outside;
my thoughts melt
into another mess
that will need to be
washed, dried
and swept away,
and I will need
to think again.

The new neighbor
has a name,
marten, which sounds
friendly enough--
a favorite uncle
or the stock boy
at the grocery store--
but don't be fooled,
he's the one who'll
sneak onto your property
while you're asleep
and eat your poultry
raw.

What is real
needs no introduction
it does not need
to explain itself
its meaning is clear
what is real
doesn't dwell on troubles
its mishaps are few
what is real
needs no conclusion
as it stands like a soldier
at the end of the world.

We heard the sound of rapture,
a thump against the bedroom window,
then found the pair of chickadees
lying side by side on the path below,
the space between their silent beaks
the thickness of a pane of glass.