Darkness never comes on winter nights—Never truly;The snow illuminates the streets,A midnight dawn. I might walk along pillowed road,Down icy hillAnd sit under gas station lightsWhere Big Sis burns Cigarettes and Angled AngieWinks warm maybes;Where brown water is called coffee,Loneliness, friends; Or back again up snowy moundWhere wood-by homesHold up the mountains and the moon,And snow sticks...
If I cannot take you with me,then I don’t want it. If life is a thing of subtler things,I despise it. If the greatestis that which cannot be lost,and the old man says, “Investin what lasts!” — I say: horseshit. There is nothing greater than you,my love. And if I shore up treasureon my way to where treasureweighs me down,then heap me up, baby! For all the subtle things —the things that really pull...
I found a strange pine needle once,exploring the grove near Grandma’s home,where my brother and I had often roamed. This needle, lying in the grove,forged of steel, not pine nor grown,was used in bleak festivity. We marveled at that false pine’s glassabdomen, crushed—its venom lately assumedup arms, its stinger true. We gave the needle’s man a form;in talks, in my imaginings,a fiend—gray-skinned...
Have patience when your noon is full,As you peak o’er the evening fall,When your breath quickens at the soundOf empty valley tumbling down. Hurry not as the shadows riseTo steal what morning sweat has earned,As straight sunbeams gaily revealWhat gave you free, now sour mourn. Have patience, love, less faith in sight;If eyes present a painful way,Doubt their truth, so your spirit mightStrengthen...
Why must a field of cottontails so please,Each stalk a thread in holy tapestry,Whose many parts of one part in the breeze,Much too fair for any monastery? They are not ordered like the city square,Architect’s design to divine pretend,Nor as the fresh-cut poodle’s golden hair,The groomer’s hand with perfection contend. But sweet and soft as only nature may,From raindrops a chaotic melody,Gently...
The old Loon’s yodel, lonely fliesAcross last season’s thawing lake;Fee-bee, the Chickadee replies. In cove, over moss nest, he sighs,His hopes a raccoon’s to unmake.The old Loon’s yodel, lonely flies. His water double doubly lies:A ruined bird—nature’s mistake.Fee-bee, the Chickadee replies. But look—a female loon he spies!This chance one he will not forsake.The old Loon’s yodel, lonely flies...