Softly Comes Slowly

Softly comes slowly
to the middle years
of this winter,
the wind brews
a cold cup of resin,
while clouds are
chipped chotchkies,
fisherkings straddle
an edge of memory
as the moon crouches
to explain


The Last of ‘Still Autumn’

A day of dipping tree
first winter is due tonight
I would call the hour “still autumn”
and so we spend still autumn
rearranging the fire into fire
knowing the snow will come
all at once every car the same model
every tree turning to see

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.