Wednesday, November 25, 2015

Monday, November 23, 2015

Earth orbs scarcely pink

 Colors hurry across the yard just before the invisible wind arrives.

Sunday, November 22, 2015

A sweet caress

The gray light of November breaks into the house. Something there is that loves it. 

Wednesday, November 18, 2015

White steam

Frost gauzes the downed and the mown.
But few shadows haunt the yard.
In the distance, a teapot whistles.

Monday, November 16, 2015

The fractured world

Rainbows walk the dining room walls and blue frost scumbles the grass. Wind scatters leaves like cats or light. Beauty leans in at an angle to the grief.

Sunday, November 15, 2015

The sky was too beautiful

The clouds, the earth, the river, every house was built of pink. For just a minute.

Friday, November 6, 2015

Other Worlds

After a night of cloudy dreams,  I went out to look for the moon.

Monday, November 2, 2015

Half and Full

Shock of a moon last night driving home, gold cradle on the hilltop, nothing in science to explain its size. It's all right to just say, inescapable wonder.

(above photos: snowberries)

Thursday, October 29, 2015

Inside an atom

The wind tosses light around like leaves. Flags of sunshine whip from every snarl of weed and shrub. Even the hidden berries vibrate.

Wednesday, October 28, 2015


Garden plots erased by red and golden leaves, levelers of ground. I hear the whisper of my feet walking anywhere they want to.

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Road to Pescadero

Outside my element, inside a different beauty.

Saturday, June 21, 2014

Clouds in the River

The Housatonic carries itself to the Sound, while its riffled waters hold the sky that's right here always changing.

Friday, May 16, 2014

Black Petals

I slipped out to the moon
last night. Called Flower,
it was someone I wanted

to friend.

May 15, 2014  full moon—excerpt from my poem  "I slipped out"


Thursday, February 13, 2014

One Night

I stood at the upstairs window and threw the curtains wide. A dull light fell into the room. And there was the street, quiet and monochrome, yet it had a glow.

Thursday, May 9, 2013

Not Waiting

The big wheel of life has rolled me to a new place. There is no way to sum up the past or figure out the future. I stand here on a threshold this moment and say—what is this?

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Open Spaces

The air is brisk today and cold; I will not let my heart close down. I feel it taking in the wind—sounds just like the bloodrush. 

Monday, April 22, 2013

A Hard Spring

The crocuses pulsed up through layers of leaf and persistent snow. They became tall, like gawky adolescents. Temperatures stalled, then plummeted. Some fell over without ever opening.

[Note: this was written March 22, 2013, but not published at that point.]

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Rainy Day

Dark skies, distant thunder, blowy trees, dry sidewalks. Then...ropes of water drop onto the streets and the asphalt becomes a river. Rain slams into leaves. I go to the porch to watch the show.

The clouds pull apart. The light that falls is gray-gold, same as the sky-color. But in a few moments, another pounding of rain. This time, the sun also pours through the small rents; a bright forest of rain appears—a grove of beaded curtains, hollow stalks of bamboo chimes. I run out to look for a rainbow—find a faint one tangled in the phone wires and chimneys, a low arc going from nowhere to nowhere. I take pictures of the lake that has formed in the yard: ripples carved by hard drops, shaky reflections of sky-trees-buildings, an indistinct rim of old junk. A layerer’s paradise.

In the sky now a gigantic white cloud retreats to the east; the bluest emptiness fills in the space it leaves, another generous pouring. Each is the purest tone, as though both cloud and sky were made of sound. 

It rains again. I video the silver rivulets that run down the dark gray trunk of the copper beech, the mercury slipping from its branches. Finally, evening lowers itself over all the glimmering dampness.

These storms come and go without meaning or intent; here is just occurrence, and its by-product, beauty. I think about griefs that return, love that wants to be spilled, something unfinishable that needs to be stated over and over. 

Thursday, July 19, 2012


The two robins who live in my sky and trees, they draw lines in space. Fast lines, color of stretched air—all the morning long the redbreasts arc and shuttle! Soon I must walk back to the house through that thick silk.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012


I like to be outside at night with the flowers. What do they do, not under the sun? Some close at night, making their interiors a privacy. Some remain as cups or dishes, as though a bee might still arrive, or a moon. Does the moon matter to a tulip?

One night they begin to fall apart. How does it feel to be loosened of petals?