poppies

an old woman
stoops to weed her poppies—
I glimpse
the sprite of a girl
still dancing inside her

~A Hundred Gourds 3:4, Sept. 2014

changing light—
a splatter of poppies 
at our meadow’s  edge
the silvery ghost
of Monet at his easel

~A Hundred Gourds 3:4, Sept. 2014

voices

my tongue
leaden with wondering 
what they’ll think . . . 
tangles of knotweed
overrun the irises

~GUSTS 20, Fall/winter 2014

whispers
from the dark night
inside me—
this gossamer presence,
her silver voice my own 

~red lights 11:1, Jan. 2015