every year at Christmas
my grandfather’s sister
sends him a box of oranges
from Florida — sometimes
grapefruits, too, which he
prepares for us of a morning
with an expert hand
secret seeds
my sister gave me a dish
of seeds in soil, saying
if you keep it watered, someday
beautiful things will grow.
imago dei
he sat huddled in his black puffy parka
on his black plastic chair
at the bottom of the exit ramp
(untitled)
when she once more reaches empty
the thirsty moon does not
refuse to turn and drink
it is love
when i wake in the night
reason once more shattering into darkness
it is love that leads me back to light
the sleepy daffodils
around the redbud tree
the sleepy daffodils
are beginning to wake up
and poke fragile arms
out toward the sky
in retrospect
in retrospect perhaps
i should not have made
that two o’clock pot
of joe
the life before
i used to get up early
and through the kitchen window
watch the pale light of morning
deepen into gold
we are not the girls we were
we are not the girls we were
now with sorrow-hollowed faces
and sufferings’ silver threads
mingling with the gold
entry log
i have not tasted
chocolate for ten days.
what more is there to say?