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When
you left
I
swore off hunting
for
reasons I wasn't
good
enough.
Now,
here I am,
pike
and pole,
keeping
a
weather
eye
in
case you come back
to
remind me.
Monday, February 8, 2016
Thursday, February 4, 2016
Wing and Wind
Mama
chestnut-backed chickadee
flew
in our 70's window
and
landed on our
scarlet,
gold and green rug.
After
a few moments
she
sputter-flew up to the windowsill,
as I
held my breath, hoping
she
could see her escape.
At
last, I urged, Go, little girl---
and
she lit out,
quick
as wing and wind could carry,
while
I
peered
at the question of sky,
as I
do now,
heart
throbbing,
wings
trembling,
for
wherever the wind might take me.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
Poet's Pen Strokes
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morgueFile |
She
was born
with a
bottle
of
blue darkness
inside
her.
When
the light
cracks
the
glass,
shafts
of light
splintering
the
container,
the
darkness
spreads
inky
arms,
stretching
through,
reaching
out/into
everything
she
is, she's been, has yet to see
and
exits
on
pages
needing
both dark and light
to
come
to be.
Friday, January 15, 2016
Fields of Remembrance
“Cut corn stalks in the wind”
video by Maria Wulf at Full Moon Fiber Art
The howling of the wolves,
the
empty stalks,
this
is home now.
Remember
when we had it all,
before
the burning, the chafing,
the
emptying?
I
won't cry, though;
tonight,
a full moon
reveals
the sickle-swept rows
we hid
between,
and
our ghosts laughing
and
playing,
reflecting
us
as we
always should have been.
For Artistic Interpretations at IGWRT, featuring artist Maria Wulf.
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
Saturday, January 9, 2016
Fruit Bat
Grapes,
mangoes,
sweet
satsumas,
watermelon.
Apples,
red.
My son
loves fruit
and
drinks only water.
We've
called him Fruit Bat
since
he was 2. He owns it,
with
swagger.
Bats: the only mammal to fly.
I hope
he always does that, too.
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
This Side of Heaven
My
son's crutches
leave
double circles
on the
wood floor,
marks
that show
where
he's been,
sometimes
stuck,
suctioned
for a moment,
to one
place.
He
moves on, though,
like
we do,
leaving
part of us
on the
distances
we've
traveled.
But
what of
these
wounds, so old
they
should have
healed
by now?
We
continue,
cracked
and crumbling,
accepting
fractured roads
bearing
us up
and
all the scars
we're
made of.
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