Perhaps August Doesn’t Know

baking a moment dot com

The humidity drowns out flowers,
the gem birds, the jewel songs – gone,
steamed vegetables – still growing,

Perhaps August has forgotten how
we suffer – breathing in the hot rain,
our garments sticking to their battles,

Then there’s a B&B in New Hampshire
that measures the temperature in
steaming cheddar biscuits eaten in A/C,

And at night, there is a down comforter
for each guest, and the hot water bill
goes through the roof every summer.

Perhaps August doesn’t know it’s winter
at Barthe & Bramble B&B, maybe we
just might stay ’til the leaves,

‘Til the first frost, when it’s safe
to come out, maybe we move in, maybe
we make ’em all three dog nights – this
summer’s end, this bubbling peach
cobbler season.




The Hours Between


the hours between
rising and
the falling breath
a journey to rose
a sandpiper’s tango
the to and fro
O poet, you –
gone seconds
across the room
in your other season

*To be read down then back up.
*You may want to pause in different places when reading back up.
*It will make sense the way the poet intended if viewed on a larger screen than a watch or even an iTouch or phone.

Painting: Tina O’Brien

Amid the Vast

bird in flight PMD 8 21 17

I was searching
the green, the blue,

the white, the wind
and now, the darkening

sky. I wanted answers,
but found only god’s

open suitcase left behind
in this forest of woven

limbs and shuttle birds.
And there amid the vast,

I leaned into my own
winding path leading

me home . . . someday.