morning is slow, a poem

moon 155

in thick carpets of air.
the morning is slow.
the lawn rabbits
don’t care.
about the moon.
pale blue cellophane
still whispering night.




night’s migration

compass photo for PDM blog

a summer night
flocks of stars
a compass glass full of

*To be read down, then up.
*You may find you pause in different places going back up.


And That’s When

I have loved you at all hours,
but there is something about
3am tonight – that it’s impossible –
that you’re sleeping –
that it leads to 6am –

when there’s an alarm –
when there’s your career –
when the dry cleaning has to
be good for something, right?

Then I realize, I’m right too
often. Because you’ve told me
I always have to be right, and
this 3am, I’m willing to be wrong.
And that’s when I reach for you.

Good for One Autumn Day

I’ve decided this poem can
carry on without the moon,
without the romance of a
heart breaking, without
a misty morning walk.

There will be no winter
storms, no spring rains, no
honey bees herein. And if I
had my way there would be
no explaining, just the beauty

of a blank page, not from
sloth or ennui. It’s just that,
as night pauses here to hide
the shovel where we put it
and to manhandle the leaves

into a corner of the porch,
I thought maybe you’d had
enough of nature, too. But
should you feel in need,
here’s a crisp, blue sky. (Good
for one autumn day. Restrictions
may apply.)