That?

In the cold, red air

of an April twilight

I carried my daughter 

around the yard wrapped 

in a soft blanket

like an infant queen

of the grasses

from long ago

while her mother

worked inside

on another story

filled with blood

and flashing light

that burns the eyes

to give us sight.

The Little pointed 

every seven seconds

asking, “That?”

and I stumbled

to remember 

the names

of things

the words

like spells

or tiny birds

flying out 

of our mouths.

.

first spring moon

                            

                                           Detail from portico mural by Jenny Heineman

sitting in the grass

like two frogs

on their asses

the wild

girl laughs 

as I point 

to the moon.

birds flit 

over head

while joyfully singing

and the sun’s

western bell

ends the day 

with red ringing.

all the small

secret places 

are appearing 

again with their

vibrating laws

that crack open

old men.

.

Lucky

Playing a little 

mahjong and

waiting for a poem

on my last night 

at fifty.

Feeling lucky

to be heading down

the backside

of a century.

Willa and Jenny 

are upstairs 

and sound 

asleep with the 

northern winds 

riding across 

the roof of the house.

Born in the middle

of the last century

my heart feels like

an empty cabin

surrounded by trees

the roof caving in

allowing passage

for rain and the moon

for wild storms 

and drifts of snow

the slow weave 

of her sun 

filtered through 

the leaves

and now 

here's a sapling 

pushing up 

through the floor.

.

The Dead of Winter

I walk out into 

the dark and bitter

the hidden 

sun exhales 

as we spin into 

its orange hair

sagging houses 

are strewn 

across the hills 

blue winds

are winding

through the trees.

At the car door

fumbling for keys

a single chime

of rusted metal 

hanging off 

an abandoned 

clothes line

sounds a note

that holds itself 

like the body 

of a brown bird

suspended 

in the ice

beneath the lake.

My dead 

Aunt Mitza
laughs as her 
96 hatchback

coughs itself

to life.

I wonder 

what's become

of her tiny 

lifeless body

as I drive north 

through eternity
along the
frozen hills

of Fontenelle Blvd.

The car is creaking
and cracking

in the cold

as the giant 

clock 

of the universe 

slowly turns 

its violent gears.





















































.

February Snow

This watery

place. 

Standing 

beneath 

the Walnut

in my snow

covered

leather shoes

the skin 

of another

keeping my 

feet warm

there are

yellow 

tulips

waiting

underneath

the ice

and fiery 

stars 

scattered 

across the 

endless dark

for us

to hang 

our stories on

infant minds

blossoming

in the quiet

flickering

light

and the only

question after 

everything

tired eyes 

staring back 

from the dark 

morning

reflection

is how 

to love

more fully.

.

Timelapse

The moon’s white

moth wings

flutter by the

window 

above 

the warm

engine of

our bodies

flowering

and decaying

so quickly

in the dark.

.