Sunday, August 14, 2016

Morning after storm


A tiny gust shakes raindrops loose from the platter leaves
of maple—high and local, just there, and then, over there, too.






Sunday, May 15, 2016

Refuge


To it, my mere line, so rarely an avenue. 

Always ahead, the door.

Never entirely closed.





Saturday, May 14, 2016

Paused

I will be going, says the chill rain. When the light turns, it will be Spring. 




This entry is from April 11 2016. I forgot to post it. But please note, the light did turn!

Friday, May 13, 2016

Lot's wife

I've looked back so many times. Into a blur of photographs, into an old house. Crowds of loves and selves I have not been able to bring along! How many more times will I have to leave? The present is a shore for refugees.



Monday, April 11, 2016

The articulate,

the wordless evening, 
when the far comes near 
and time walks over the earth 
like a large bright animal


This post originally titled Everything under the sun

Sunday, March 27, 2016

Shall be released

I am saved by it each spring anew. A mighty power opens the earth to become Scilla, my asterisk,
whose footnote says, True blue.*

*It means: I will always return to you.



(Easter Sunday, 4:08 pm DST)

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

Sunday, February 14, 2016

The fresh world

received by the mirror of art.

A mutual love
always in exchange.



This post originally titled, Love always pouring forth.



Wednesday, January 27, 2016

If you would write a letter to the moon

There have always been the two of you. The light inside
is the shy friend who tries on the cape of sky. The other
is the mirror. Every word spoken between you is a loop.



Monday, January 18, 2016

Strange land

In this state, the seasons are loosely translated.




Tuesday, January 12, 2016

Just so

A particular morning. 
Like the first morning, plus a house. 
Oh morning, you have never failed 
the world. And today 
you are looked at from a window.





Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Epiphany

Mist, wind, and rain have travelled to these hills from distant places. The line that separates the heavens from the earth has almost disappeared. The firs keep pointing to the sky though there is no star.