Saturday, June 14, 2014

Despite the weeds and hot, hot sun
the petunias turn their innocent
faces to the sun
black-eyed susans keep my secrets
hibiscus has a new coral bloom
each morning--

Clover blossoms
in the lawn, thick
as the Milky Way;
the doe spends
every day here
feeding on stars
in broad daylight.

Friday, June 13, 2014

Strawberry moon binds
my shadow to the night sidewalk
leads me to myself
the trees whisper their secret
crickets lean into their song.

Look at it from the other side--
the spiral has another way to go.

Thursday, June 12, 2014

Tonight the moon is following my every move;
it is neither waning nor obscured by clouds,
it is high and luminous and full
of possibility.

I've arrived--
looks like paradise--
but where are you--
you said you'd
be here too.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

Which bird trembles first
when the rest of them follow,
when the best of them shadow
so skillfully, teeming 
with purpose?

A third of the way through June,
the temperature at dawn
is only forty eight degrees;
summer takes her time here,
more patient than the five-point buck
steamrolling the ferns
anxious for his breakfast.

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Sometimes things just break 
and it's not a sign of anything. . .
sometimes doors open for no reason,
so we say it's just the wind.

Sometimes you need this
kind of Tuesday--
the wet, grey glue that
holds your life together.

Monday, June 9, 2014

Locust song fills the space between the river
and the road, between yesterday and today,
though there are no locusts in this life
and the world has settled to a slow hum.

You'd think that Swainson's thrush
would tire of this rigid schedule,
but he's always up ten minutes
after I am, and he never fails
to follow me to bed.

Sunday, June 8, 2014

You know how it happens--
one day you're sifting seed into soil,
cropping the hedges, comfortable breezes
grazing your skin. . .
but before long
sycamore leaves crackle
beneath your feet. . . 
pine and brier resist,
but the garden aches and declines
until it is impossible to mend.

A horde of starving caterpillars
swarms my chair, beguiled
by the iron flowers wrought
into its legs and arms and back;
most of them will surely die
before they come to realize
their careless mistake.