quicksilver

autumn harvest  . . .

moldering hay bales

sprout new grass

even as the whetted scythe 

mows down the years

no one

told me of his death,

the last

of my mother’s siblings . . .

ripples on the pond’s dark eye

the moon

so far beyond my reach

and yet I drink

from its reflection

this dipperful of light

other mothers’

diamond brooches . . .

I buff

the mossy jadestone

of her silver-legged frog

~Ribbons 12:1, Winter 2016