Worlds fused confused as I coil from one to the other and back Northerly winds sooth cool pseudo heat. Gone are the scorched canyons. The taste of sweet viscous dates fades away with sticky maple sap drips salted sea diluted by a shimmering lake. We too are mellower now, as we grow older in this
The tulips of bold spring colours were in full bloom now they linger in liminal. I haven’t chucked them into the bin at the faintest wrinkling of petals; decay has its wondrous mutations— the purple petals flap open an unfurled upside down umbrella, exposing the pistil and stigma—so immodestly phallic! and the curled red
The lake waits all night for me. Fettered boats rock and drift gently, answering unseen currents. Tadpoles, soft black bodies like commas, wriggle along the honeycombed shallows, awaiting their metamorphosis. As morning ages wind wrinkles the lake’s skin, but as I slip into blue its fingers are all satin. You have to understand: poetry
A year of catechism lessons to distill My eight-year-old soul for God, Had led to so much anticipation for the moon- Like wafers that would magically transubstantiate. The array: an illustrated children’s missal With gilded edges; a silver rosary; Lace gloves; satin pouch; gold chalice pin; A tiara of blossoms and a poofy silk
How well-crafted is the daffodil how like a poem growing from one tight-fisted sphere requiring nurture from deep surroundings shyly the leaves emerge, flourish in tender green, the slender stalk in triumph lifts the full-blown blossom, a bright signal to the world, the beauty of life.
Woken with a headache, loud complaint against the inflatable mattress on the tiny apartment floor, I stare outside where lightning flashes far away, and wind tousles treetops – knavish heralds of a thunderstorm. Under the streetlights below, brilliant greenery overlays vibrant paint schemes, wood scrollwork no longer seen in mass-produced suburbia, those drab by comparison.
shelter cold empty beach daytime mine in slow pacing walk seaside lone thought view nature calm being ice mist breath steam air drift upwardly rising silent fall rain glowing distant horizon rough wooden steps climbing drizzle escaping under paint-peeled tin shelter sit comfort dry bench second-hand wool coat pulled tightly be nearer grateful safe cover
Psalm for a Changing Climate Comforted by damp grasses, by massive maples that shade my simple house, I linger far from wilderness. Those dry lands whether formed from ancient ocean or very newly made from wildfire and desperation, from ash-black sands are someone else’s home, not mine. Nearby, a river sings nourished by summer rains—though
Ghosts of Winters Past I remember the Christmas when I awoke to see a shiny new toboggan standing tall beside the tree and winter breaks spent sliding down a frozen hill where neighborhood kids could all be found rosy cheeks and tingling toes under sunny skies at ten degrees below boots trudging and crunching through