July 11, 2013

why yesterday



for the hex hatch. for the love of things 
rising, my eyes follow their wings. for the love of things 
swimming, my eyes follow the leaping trout

the loon: my ears listen 
hearing only another year 

rain falls. tapping the leaves and granite. I scatter his ashes with bark, beech leaves, the greenness of blue bead lily 
as if one can see once one's gone. 

   for the love of things
we see for each other. that never ends

July 01, 2013



Bluet Hill


June 27, 2013



Bishop’s Weed

Her favorite garden is not a garden at all but a large patch (or small pocket) of bishop’s weed behind the barn. Sometimes there is madder wafting honey in the air, but by far, this plot of uncultivated land is dominated by one plant tall enough to be considered erotically invasive. So thick as to create a nesting place for love, so tall as to create a picket fence of flowering proportion, so tender as to cushion the barest back of man, it becomes her preferred bedstraw in the deep Sunday of July when he stands over her with a sheet in hand.




(previously published in Birchsong: Poetry Centered in Vermont)


June 26, 2013

(always here)


if not by foot, then by heart  



June 25, 2013





Because you're already a friend 
Who, in the quiet moments of my day, still speaks 
Through our common interests

If the door is still open
You'll see me
Standing at the threshold 
With freshly trimmed peonies
Talking to the ants


May 29, 2013

a few words shared with a friend this morning about my weekend . . . 
Yesterday, I made it out to the Groton State Forest for the first time this season. That's by far the latest I've gone, and it was a bit of a heart tug driving there. The starflowers were blooming in profusion, and the clintonia too. Canada mayflower had just begun opening. Painted trillium were peeking through the green understory, and the blueberry bushes were full. Such little bells! The light green flowers of striped maple caught my eye as I looked to the marsh, noting how every year, it's a little more crowded. I checked the vernal pool on my right, where years ago I found cobalt eggs floating. I've yet to see them again. The lady's slippers were still creamy white, just thinking of blushing. Nearing dusk, the black flies came in clouds. I watched a small bird calling from the top of a spruce on Owl's Head. I don't know many birds, but my heart dreamed it a kinglet. I was driving my mother's little convertible Beetle, which allowed me to hear red winged blackbirds and peepers as I approached the swales driving home. 

May 25, 2013




on the night of the flowering moon
rain fell, words 
found soft ground    petals 

prayers