the buckets up high/ pouring wide on us below,/ white mountain washed out./ flowers droop in rain

Sea and sky/ show me your/ blue music,/ bring me waves,/ raindrops, and/ pleasant views./ I will take/ rhythm

A  dreamed  ship has gone aground/ at the most marvelous and dreamiest afterglow./ The mast

The roads are two./ One that leads you to the alleyways of dreams,/ And other to the land of distant

The sound of doors/ shutting inside/ anonymous rooms/ during the quiet/ hours when there is still/ light

Quando fiam uti chelidon// The musk rose folds upon herself/ like a mother, keening// Hush now –// don't

This day is extremely long./ The sun is setting by the hills./ Everyone says to stay strong./ At the wake, we

She left him like a boat/ when the tide has gone out,/ sandbank hours; lost hope./ Stole his dreams to

the doppler of traffic/ on a quiet/ sunday morning/ washes through sunrise/ like a seashore/ and the

What if I were to wake before the wild/ turkey that roosts in the sycamore?// Would I look

When I was younger/ there were thoughts of/ chalking the sky and I/ preceded to rummage through

The earth unfolds/ a flower in the sun/ light/ the butterfly/ illuminates/ the afternoon/ brilliant red and

A lune poem// Soaring in the cloud/ Are the eagles/ Coasting on currents

Those winter weekdays/ my father woke me/ to lie by the warmth of the wood-burning stove he heated

The doorbell of suffering is ringing./ Through the window the sun is shining,/ and the skies are cloudless

A hummingbird flitted across the flower shelf: / A flash in the shadow / No time to tell the color of her

The late/ afternoon sun/ runs its fingers/ through a crowd/ of cattails.

There are too many/ clocks and not enough/ time.  I will take/ and save this minute/ for myself.// This minute

A ringtone makes its way through the open window/ Music is forbidden here/ Death is the

A small part of you believes an old house/ holds all its secrets, conversations,/ and lies, in