Bluefin TunaBitter friend, pour me the sound of mountainsclimbing under the waves like spreading gills.These fingers liftTo the ones left behindTo the ones silentTo the ones hunted and cradledup and out of the grass green watersin gentle nets: I say, you do not surprise meknocking the waves and wood with sullen flank.You are not unfamiliar, in your blue slip,in this dust of droplets, saltingfirst the dry dock, then the ice.
When the kettle explodesWhen the kettle explodes into shrill white steam, I will not be there.When you look up,the cup will notbe in my hand, the swirling teaspoonnot in my other. The world will shatter, without me,on the edge of a machine recording.I will be your dial tone.
When sadness leavesSadness left me, turnedand closed the doorand hasn't stopped by since."You have no right to me," it said."Just give me one reason," it said."And we'll be together," it said.Dried prunes in the bowl on the tablehad nothing to say. The cat,even less."How dare you," I said."You never put the toilet seat down," I said."I'm better off without you here," I said.And hoping sadness would get held upin a Market Street bazaar, or robbery in progress,I crossed its name out in my address book,and crying, tried to come up with a reason.
A Season of Winter1. and so it begins. . .leaves whisperingtheir death poems to me2. senses awaken. . .gray morningI open a melon,its green perfume3 . across a field. . .winter brilliance—the Milky Waycasts a farmer's shadow4. welcome. . .windowsshutting out the chill,moonlight spills in5. daydreams. . .choppingwinter vegetables for stew,thoughts of summer plums6. snow angels. . .reminiscing,the imprints you and Ileft behind, fill with snow7. comet-trysting. . .new moon phase—winter anointed with sapphiresfrom a nightly caller8. solstice. . .the same moonyou and Ithe same moon9. a homecoming. . .milky way in deep winter—his son's voiceno longer a child's10. crystallized. . .early morninghalf dressed by a window—frost on the cars11. cold morning, hot tea. . .he sips a steaming cupwatching from its edgeas I cut pears in two12. a harbinger. . .snow melting
ThornsIn order for a Flower to flourish it mustHave the thorns cut off
Pond WaterI smell pond waterFreshly evaporatedJust before spring startsOne of the few things I loveAbout the coming sunshine
Morning Lullabysongbirds whistlea morning lullaby;sun envelops the horizon
Black and whitedeserted streetsand round ev'ry corner,howling over the wind
-simple steps-whispers from treesas meadowlarks converseand so, we dance
The beating of wingsev'ry breath of airalters my path, but ohthe creatures of the air
PilgrimageI go to the mountainbathed in birdsongrecharging my faith
The Greygraceful bodiescover the greyalong with the clouds