To the tune of a song not yet written
I dropped my name in an empty star
the risers sagging with the rot of time
Found a hole in the ground but the sign says climb
Dad where did you go Son I’ve not gone far
By the streaky window with hands of a child
Drew a shape through my breath that I called Forever
Drew down the wind my heart was a fever
My lover woke me with the hands of a weaver
Mom where did you go Son I knew you were clever
Now the morning’s come now the air is mild
Son the house of your life is balm for pain
And your children ride the curve of the river
Son where did you go there’s news to deliver
And the roof does not explain the rain
After a Mid-March Snowstorm
Winter’s last silent sigh
is borne quietly by mountain pines
Clouds drift like tumblers until
they unlock the day’s first color
Early March, Above Freezing, Light Snow
Five mourning doves gather on close branches.
But the sky in the trees is too miserable for mourning.
Even the earth will not accept the night’s snow
which sits in clumps on the ground like oil on water.
It highlights fallen trees on the mountain slope
showing all the directions down can take you.
Between the shed and a crack in the clouds
two bluejays mate in a flurry on a fallen ladder.