thirty birds

                                       for jenny

so grateful
to feel
these waves
of love
along 
the shores
of time

while our 
tiny days 
are caught
in the wind
and
 slowly
   float

a

    w       

             a

                         

                                                   

             

                                        y

.

Rough

The Little One 

with open 

hearted violence

punches and kicks

and sighs and grunts

and arches and rails

as the dark unwinds

its final strands.

In the tangled nest of bed

the mother and father 

and dog and child 

attend the wild fray

of night into the day.

On this rough 
morning along

the narrow

road of infinity

let us fight

with every 

exhausted breath

the razor wire 

of Standards

as light 

comes in a crash 

helmut flying

over the dome 

of the earth

through the furnace

forged glass

through our eyes

which do not see

and into the silent

storm which does.

. 

Shining

The infant stares out the window
as her diaper is changed
              golden liquid 
              gently wiped 
              from her tiny butt
entranced by the Birch leaves
lost in the flicker and spin 
of greens and blues.
Quietly looking 
without the idea 
of leaves
or trees 
windows
sky 
light
mother 
dark
house
father
humans
dogs
time
fire
earth
stars.

Little daughter smiles 
every morning
as brightly as 
a miniature sun.
Her eyes 
are filled
with joy.

.

Poem in Two Lines

                   Has the moon returned
                         or have I returned to the moon?
















































.

The Cardinal

The Cardinal whistles

at the bitter coffee

leavened with thick cream

and brown cane sugar.

The breeze runs and stumbles

through the planted grasses

and blooming flowers

above the hidden prairie.

Slicing through the morning

the bike descends the bluffs 

to the wide flood plain

with its tilting houses.

The sweet green air

is rising with the sun

from warming lambsquarters

pushing up through cracks.

The old water tower

on rusting legs

turns its bird-filled body

toward the fiery east.

And here we sit

in this tumbling day

parsing out the wild joy 

of the ever unfolding.

.

ten thousand

for Tim

warm evenings

with doors wide

open

  cigarette rolling

    slivo laden

golden evenings

of sweat

       after the rush.

ten thousand

   plates later

there is so much

       wild earth coaxed 

           and turned

chopped and ladled

     fired into

    waves of life

that roll

ever onward.

.

loss and night

the darkness 

lightens

as it sets in.

the red curtain

shimmers

with wind.

.