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before rain
after the sun before the night the tang of rain the final fleeting of feathers as the birds fly home would I were them momentary flight the transitory gleam of reaching home after the sun before the...
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Article 4
how like waves the days rise and rush, fold and founder, in this quieter collapse of perceived shores those hours I shooed and shushed, now distant as gulls whose calls sound time’s dying, find placid...
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this safety of glass
this morning a dust-white moth flittered impervious to improbability precarious outside the window twenty-seven floors up and I, more unsettled than he, held how quick the rise to love how equally...
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poppy-winged
if I could fold wings for words of red-petaled poppies and affix them gently with a pin I would launch a fleet of these to flit and twit as sparrows and settle in your trees and whispering arrange...
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light resides
light resides in the quiet crook of your elbow were I to unbend it or raise my head from where my hair loves the smooth turns of you it would surely escape fly out the open window pulling along behind...
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shameless cross-post
Because I can. And because I am in love with this picture, which is one of a series I took and plan to frame and hang on the walls. If I were a good little poet, I’d come up with a companion piece,...
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buttercup
knowing you already have the company of stones, and wanting a remembrance less weighty, I brought to you the single beam of a wild buttercup plucked from among its golden brothers, drifting even now...
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