Foxes and Magnolias

Leaves rattle down like rain; they brown and crumple against street curbs and leave me longing for something I may have never lost.

“Like a Pendulum,” You Said.

Someone watched us fishing,
well, you teaching me how to fish-

the counterpoise of movement,
the tension and release of line from hand-

and told me later he thought we were falling in love right then,
us standing thigh deep on the still side of current,
our skin gold and hot from the sun and touching
at times.

There’s a picture of us-
our pants weighted from the cold water
your arms bending when returning from elongation,
the muscles in your back
finding every gradient of gold to coal
as they moved in the light,

me staring at you
like I would the Grand Canyon.

New Season

Sometimes I forget the way in which you left me:
so suddenly and without telling

and I wonder where all the sound has gone,
why the couch and house have too much space, now
so much stillness,
why the dishes in the sink seem too few, now.

I used to watch the moon rise slow
with you
or hoped you were watching it, too
when parted from you.

I saw the moon sink like a falling stone
this morning and didn’t sink
in thought of you.

Early summer skies
already turned blue.

I’ll Remember How You Remembered

You ask me if I remember making love to you
once, on the floor of an old apartment I had
as we held crystals- quartz and and long selenite-
along each other’s bodies.

I don’t
and tell you so.
This is the first time I’ve ever seen you sad before,
head leaning- as though falling, though only momentarily- in disbelief,
your eyes
deeper, somehow.

So many memories I’ve had
of loving you once
are faded now.
You never knew I loved you then.


The innocent chatter of loud children

whirling and bending like dance,

like flirting birds

in dull spaces,

little boy and little girl

speaking and giggling

at the same octave

with the same gapped tooth smiles
her blonde pony tail, frizzed

his hair neatly shaped,

freshly cut at the salon

down the street with his mother
little leaves on long branches

canting at the edge of happening roads.
My hands were softer in Illinois-

youth and humidity combined.
Maybe you remember,

do you-

my soft hands, back then

in Illinois?
You always held them so well,

took one of mine in both of yours

and kissed it

so well.
Why don’t you kiss them


And the rosehips someday, too

He brought me flowers

from the little market today,

red and green and plum,

some yellow
and I couldn’t help but think

how they’d soon be dead,

soon with leaves and petals

dried and curling,
and all the pines I saw

across the hills,

I couldn’t help

but think of them dead,

someday, too.
When driving the canyon:

a truck

with a hundred trees, or so.

I wanted to stop him,

tell him to put them back.

Amongst Other Little Things

I saw little feet hanging at the edge of a stroller,

little black shoes in sunlight,



Tuesday sparrows spilling songs

from nests



Everything suddenly was.

April Never Used To Be So Cold

Today two feet of snow

laying heavily over trees,

pines drooping with bulky branches,

snow sliding to their ends and cascading,

sudden and frequent.


Black walnut trees fractal

skyward and sideways,

willow vines draping like narrow chutes.


Sweet man of mine

drove me through

and down

mountain roads,

six something in the morning

worried for me to do it alone,

worried of ice, of sloppy streets

with too much winter

for me-


the roads plowed, of course, already,

melting already

from where the streets held sun

in yesterday’s spring.


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 79 other followers