The bow bends. The bough bends.
The arrow is married to both.
Sunday, August 14, 2022
Sunday, August 7, 2022
Saturday, August 6, 2022
Sunday, February 6, 2022
Frost scribbles on the window.
The trees do their winter dance.
Wooden fence posts with names painted on them, like a cemetery in single file.
In the spider's cookbook, the pages are all stuck together.
Oh moon, tell me that story again.
Recipe for disaster: add one human.
The laws of physics are immutable. You, sadly, are not.
I erased the note I wrote you, one letter at a time.
The river mispronounces the names of the drowned.
The snail sleeps in its car, in the middle of an empty field.
What does summer furniture do in winter? Black skeletons standing in a white room, looking for somewhere to sit.
If you cut water, it bleeds. If you cut glass, it cries.
An afterthought, filled with music.
Death, and its thousands of practical jokes.
The wind holds its breath. The trees count to ten.
Sunday, November 28, 2021
Alone. In a narrow slip
of open water the brook's hard work
keeps free of ice and snow,
the bufflehead sticks to itself
or its mate.
of the mallard or other ducks
they must share what scraps
of open space are available.
Separate but equal.
the quiet places
where there is no one
to make fun of
its bloated head, the oversized
target he looks out from
at a world
distinct and difficult
Monday, September 21, 2020
On special occasions
he wears his sash and frilly hat
to indicate he is the representative
of a strange and uninhabited country.
He shuffles through the yard
to each and every tree and shrub
with a deep bow and muttered obsequies.
They say he hasn't been the same
since his wife died. There are children
who live in distant cities but never visit.
The rest of the time he can be seen
sitting at the kitchen table in his bathrobe
staring at the calendar, waiting
for the next day circled in red