Tag: writing
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Legacy
we were never a family they tried to make us one though called it to our faces even but they only ever got signatures from one side of the street. It was the doves who told me, mourning and morning have different meanings, family and family do too, I whispered back. I’m thinking about legacy…
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september words
tonight tomorrow them forever good grief dropped soft forgotten tree remember still dark want tethered need night air
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I
write these lists, of things to do draw lines when they are done and still, I leave the anchor & the crown off my I’s For a good long while I didn’t even capitalize them; they felt too loud too self-possessed, not me I spent time pressing backspace & delete shrinking the stories…
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That Summer
august air, earth fat sunshine and sea salt Lake glass blue as Blue, as Billings, as Wyassup where it hailed that one night and we stayed to watch the sunrise. Plenty of rain, the New England way our town like a puddle, like a fishbowl, like that Mellencamp song. Those same spooling roads still Stony Brook,…
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(heart)
there was a hole there, it was flesh and deep not visible from front or back felt only from its sides from walking beside it and with it, eyes closed eyes open, for always. There was a hole there, it was beautiful and empty gaping with mercy gaping for mercy it was not ruined it…
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It is
the curling black wick of a tea candle, softened with time and shiny gold threads leading nowhere it’s the cheap, blue pencil sharpener whose blades give points to some and chew divots in the rest it’s rock stacks and dried flowers; my god is it rock stacks & dried flowers whose lines layer lines whose…
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It feels like summer
but it isn’t slow mornings and extra sunlight early entry to the most talked about concerto, of the year The red-butted bumblebees are kissing raspberry flowers again last Sunday, I witnessed the inaugural flight of our beloved backyard Monarch The kids have popped up their red & gray, sleeps-4-tent beside the undergrown strawberries and the ripe breakfast radish It isn’t summer yet but…
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MIRRORS for Waverly Pearl
she brings me a piece of sun-bleached white paper- she wants to show me what she’s drawn at school today I see a dog, with wings happy and outside clear as day in its left hand the dog is holding a wand with a heart at its center to the left of the purple winged dog there is a thought…
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but we were starlings
and it was the kind of lonely without a bottom or a top just a free fall thru an ocean to a floor on top of a great big spinning planet an emptiness void of edges even and still it was assumed we’d asked for it made demands and offers, wishes really to be dropped…
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Coils
Like a pot on a windowsill I long for more air more earth the glowing wink in a night sky The give of Terra Cotta is still, somehow, so unforgiving. From my perch lookout beside the windowsill I see the soft, round starts of pea plants how they’ve made their way into the tulips (in…
