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?
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.
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.
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.
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
music from a distant room
i heard the voice rise and fall,
passion and hesitation twinned in its timbre.
what we call the beginning
morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
what we call the beginning is often the end.
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.
streetcar blues
the streetcar opened six years ago,
and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.