lichen-laced gravestone
weathered white with age:
there we read our name
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ghost falls
with skies of ash and waters of snow
we wonder where does the river go
thorn
in the poppy bed
there’s a stubborn weed
i never can seem to kill
i suppose i could say
i suppose i could
say nothing happened today
but that is a lie
dressed for spring
midway up the hill
the neighbor’s weeping fig
is dressed for spring
a gown of bridal white blossoms
shielding leafless branches.
Sister Winter
… But my heart is
Returned to sister winter
But my hands are
As cold as ice …
o Love ever-burning
Who will lift the shroud of night
heaven’s light fresh to reveal
overcome death’s with’ring blight
deign our wounded hearts to heal?
wherever there is
here is a hand for you. it is here
and you are there, wherever there is.
liminality
all day i have been haunted by liminality.
the first last things. the beginnings of endings.
considering the lilies
the angel does not his own image praise
nor does the bloom amid green-bladed grass