Posted in Uncategorized, tagged beauty, doors, haiku, inquiry, knowing, listening, not knowing, poem, weeds, winter on January 13, 2012| 1 Comment »
first the stars
then all the space between the stars
slipped into my tea
*
dried and dead
I leave them in the vase
the naked tulips
*
winter
every cloud
a love letter
*
hey poet
get out of the way
said the poem
*
bird on the wire
for a few moments
we both stop singing
*
the weeds gone to seed—
and who is this one
who thinks they are weeds
*
another door,
another door, another wall
becomes a door
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged haiku, relief, shoveling, sunlight, winter on December 25, 2011| 1 Comment »
yesterday
deep snow
today we shovel light
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged apocalypse, gratitude, poem, winter on December 22, 2011| 3 Comments »
Three degrees,
snow on the drive
the ninth stargazer
lily opened
and there was no
apocalypse—
no horsemen four,
no asteroid,
no anti-Christ.
That made this first
cold day of winter
very, very nice.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged love, poem, winter on November 18, 2011| 2 Comments »
The seasons always change. And life will find a way.
—Sara Bareilles,
Cracked, the sidewalk,
and snapped, the branches,
and bent the dead weeds
with their shriveled leaves
weary like prayer flags spent.
Even the rocks are chipped
and the smell of decay
weaves into the breeze.
There is nothing on this
late autumn walk
that seems whole, which is to say
everything is broken together—
me, the weeds, the sad concrete—
even so this odd heart,
ripening out of season,
chooses to fall deeper in love
with the world, though the forecast
is for cold and getting colder.