Thursday, April 25, 2013

spring of his second year

It’s warm enough
and he opens and closes
the sliding screen door from the balcony

the first spring
he can use his right hand to slide it
then hook with left fingertips and close

the first spring rain
pressing lips against
looking in and gutterally “Bah!”

and giggle, the beginning
movement, the bare feet
puddled, shuffling side to side

over and over, back and forth, surprised,
complete, propelling, clicking closed
opening easy, how had he not before known

the momentum of the door
the smooth, intoxicating
possibility of hands

Sunday, April 21, 2013


The first day that shines  
like spring
I walk until I fear
I might get lost
then turn back
on a beeline to the big pine

where sounds of birds
drive from my head
our morning fight —

the same one
we always have
about nothing
then afterward

I rake the garden,
        leaves black, sodden, trapped,
        tines of the rake awkwardly
        clawing more fence than leaves

blown to this border every autumn,
buried under every
snow after snow,
pressed until they hold so tight
to the ground

that when I scrape them free
the bare dirt releases gasps
of bright grass as if
for every birth a death
must begin the greatest joy

Monday, April 15, 2013

season of wholeness

Spring is late, even snow
falls where he dug up
a dozen of last year’s 
potatoes, clusters of snow 
and potatoes nearly the same 
size and both deformed 
with nobs and bulges,
the ones falling fast and heavy,
the others huddled under
them near where they were dug,
like a small altar to winter
which saved them for this day
that is neither winter nor spring
that is perfectly falling
and hitting the mark
without expectation.

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

the you and the I

I think what people want
is purity like

that contains the blood
and prevents its spilling

oceans that slap
the land’s edges back into shape

minds that understand
the difference between stranger
and friend

the comfort of separateness

the taste of this apple
that bears the provenance of the refrigerator

the yellow pepper
that crossed surreptitiously
into this bite

which should rightfully be
only rain, limb, bird

unlike how you have bled
into me who might otherwise 
be understood

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

in the middle of the night, the moon

Have you lain
the moon’s lily
a window

and felt
on your
how she loves
your face how
like your face

how every
face under
in yours?