this morning

ice erased in just one spot

sun moves up the road

wanting a perfect

grief that lies

gently across my

shoulders like

reassurance

wanting an imperfect

memory that

varnishes away

scratches and

tears

wanting one

more chance to

say goodbye

to talk about

today's snow

he, always

alright alone

we, now

not so much

push on

until

a sigh

a draft

a flutter of

words and 

wings

and then

breaking

like clay

against the shovel

fall back to earth

new development
dads wait in the driveways
for the schoolbus

the poet draws

each line this long 

and no longer

here shorter and

there shorter still

an architecture of

love and despair

hope and running

wild

what passes for

prayer today

the cloud that

crosses the sun

the wind that

moves the trees

to dance

drinking golden

oolong the

simple joyful

passing of dark

into light

turning wait

into hope

feeling “amen”

on the tip of

my tongue

and making it

be a smile

instead of

a word

inside the house

a dream made

inside the dream

picked up from

a rocky beach

they are heroes

who return and

never exact the

price of their

absence

whose gaze on

the absolute is

softened by

tear-stung eyes

follow them

make a parade

with the feathers

of small birds

who nest close

to heaven

those stories we

pull from childhood

blankets stay

with us

forever

woolen strands of

hidden laughter

flannel patches

of running 

dreams

that child 

just taller

inhabits arms

and legs like

the soul inside

stone

the book
fell apart in my 
hands

all the words
escaped
in a sigh a 
moan a wail

where is the librarian
when you need her
or him

bring a broom
a mop a basket to
catch up
contain
all the empty
pages

words are
free

yesterday's yesterday

passing so quietly

barely remembered

today and yet

there is an impression

like bronze struck

on an anvil

can be inscribed with

lines hatches and

small dents

simply observing

coneflower butterfly bee

this morning's prayer

morning trickles out

a puddle of honey

catching me mid-stream

in thick amber musings

somewhere a clock ticks

on and on and on

like the buzz of a bee

hovering above the rose

time levels all traps

both the fierce and the sweet ones

until we swim dance or simply

slide to another place

new moon

finds a seed

caught between

ragged cement fragments

names her little sister

sun

when did June turn to

double digits when

did that limb of

the neighbor's

red maple 

die

silence sits

like a tent on a 

silver misted plain

welcoming all

holding 

few

we are all the

middle child sitting

between hope on one side

and... we can't name

the other side can

we

Happy Birthday Robert Schumann

8 June 1910 - 29 July 1856

the white knuckles are mine but

claiming them does not loosen their grip

nor does such ownership contain the

sigh that escapes like a gray cloud

skating across blue sky.

I listen to a story about Robert Schumann

and his depressions which causes

me to to think that maybe it might be

the work emerging from these

white knuckles this gray sigh

that redeems and supports

another day.

there are those who call me foolish
and even some who think me wise...

the only fear I have
the only danger I perceive
is that I should begin to
believe them and lose
the trust of my own
voice which even
when whispering
tells me the
truth of 
me 

the clouds are frozen
needing the sigh of a friend
before they can move

the brush of a hand before
they will let the sun shine through

half a tail chases
other squirrels off the curb
the kids call him Bob

the gift

always holds traces

of the giver

sometimes I
go away without
a word until
that word and
others pile up
demanding
to be let go
or taken
home

and then
sometimes
I think I
understand
and try to
find my way
back

sometimes

your words

cast like bread crumbs

I follow

frost on the window
delicate bones fading
this birdless dawn

Christmas we gather
past and presents
in this living room

up!  up!
a tiny face framed by hands
reaching

Narcissus reflecting
in the pool next to the moon
beneath the moon

crows drop like leaves
through
snow-feathered branches

black water pools
in the gray sagging ice
downstream a heron

morning coffee
one bare foot
under another

your guitar and mine
squirrels chase
through the treetops

ice narrowed creek
a frog opens and closes
like a jellyfish

bad dreams sit around
like large black birds on a fence
mocking passersby

little cat
you make me smile and then laugh
no you can’t come in

everything rested
now begins to grow
fire beneath ice