small songs I sing
to join
my voice to other voices
hidden in the grass

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Monday, December 17, 2012

the woods road

Sunday morning
his silent nod

climbing the gate
into no-sound
thick under hemlocks

birch and boulder
around the hill or over it
the path

on the granite boulder
tongues of lichen
the scraped knee

stony hillside—
even the cow paths
drenched with light

mother and child
the cows
always at  home

sweet fern
crushed between fingers
the scent of time

blackberry tunnel
round the oak’s bones

empty acorn
under one white oak
a whole new forest

shades of green—
hairy-cap moss
five fingers deep

her picnic basket—
seedling, shadow, leaf

wintergreen berries
for winter’s glass house

soldier moss marching—
the far end of a twig

holding its name
in her hands

bracket fungi
in earth-scented duff
concentric circles

the woods road
never going
to the end of it


Friday, December 7, 2012

[my only keepsake . . .]

my only keepsake
from a house of grand pianos
tiny brass Pan
piping a reedy tune
no-one else can hear

A Hundred Gourds 1:4, Sept. 2012

Saturday, December 1, 2012

[braiding . . .]

her sister’s hair
after the rape
so many
long dark strands

Ribbons 8:2, Fall 2012