6:15

this morning the sun
streaked the sky with ruby wonder —
but i went back to bed

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tethered

is it a chain or
a root that holds us here; is
it fear or just love?

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root & leaf

these leaves had roots once.
this sheaf was a forest
(or a tree)
and birds nested
in its branches,
squirrels cannoned
from limb to limb
with death-defying grace.

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the distance between

on june 23, 2013,
one of the flying wallendas
crossed the grand canyon
on a tightrope,
fifteen-hundred feet
above the river
running along the bottom.

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i suppose you have trees

the evening sun set the oak leaves glowing
like bronze against the still-blue sky,
and i wished i could show you
how beautiful it was, could explain
why i wished i could show you.

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butter (good)

oh sister, bring out the butter (good)
and place it on the table there
then rest your bones
and welcome home;
for you we’ve always got a chair

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music from a distant room

i heard the voice rise and fall,
passion and hesitation twinned in its timbre.

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what we call the beginning

morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
what we call the beginning is often the end.

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twin

he was the quiet one.
red hair, glasses, freckles;
more sarcastic, or shy,
than his funny brother —
more intense than easy-going.
or, at least, that’s how i
remember him.

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streetcar blues

the streetcar opened six years ago,
and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

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