Foxes and Magnolias

Poetry for keepsakes, for longing, for letting go.


Last night we began

to come up with a language of touch.

One finger means this,

two means that,

three- us or we.

I wonder how full our dictionary will be

by the time we are 80

still touching each other


A little tribe:


my dog,


Every Morning

You said,

I want to wake up every morning with you

like this.


Ok, I said.


I wish time would wait,

let us have mornings together,

slowly, daily.

Girl Talk II

You walked away and she asked,

Is that your man?

watching the way you move.


I can’t claim you as anyone but your own,

but nodded, smiled,

as though to say,

We belong together.

Girl Talk

My friend said,

I like him.

I like the way you talk about him.

In City Park with the City Geese

The colors were subdued in the way they are just after it rains,

though it hadn’t yet.

Forest greens and bright greens with the same amount of softness,

yellows like butterscotch, grays and whites and blacks all charcoal and ash.

The squirrels were almost red, the geese almost blue.


She came to us, the little Japanese women,

walking slowly through her age,

bundled in an ash puffy jacket, hood over hat,

her little dog in a little teal sweater.


Carefully, to not let the birds see,

she gave us a handful of bread


(the pieces pre-torn)

for the goose with a limp in its leg,

left lagging.


When she slowly made off,

the plump birds at her feet,

we fed the limping one.


As we passed her again, us on our bicycles,

her with her little dog and bags of bread

and gaggle of geese,

she thanked us,

and us her.


This morning we woke to a flock of geese

honking through cold Tuesday rain.


I imagine she was there this morning,

seeing them off as they flew south,

being sure the little one had enough food before taking flight.


It is more than just feeding the geese,

she knows their way-

the goose lady.