Transitioning

The sun casts
lavender shadows,
farmers’ fields
lie in wait
at winter’s end,
crocuses and
daffodils scream
through snow-
soaked earth.

Quiet repose-
dry mouth’d
incarcerated mind,
petites fleurs
sprinkle across
the soft lawn
of her gown,
silvery wisps
crown her head-
eyes like his,
he cannot take
sick from her.

Spring day
as light as dark,
transitioning
life lived death-
decades ahead,
more mother
than sister,
her slip
into the night
will hold whispers
of loved ones
firmly rooted
in soil, still.

Leave Him At Peace

Leave him at peace
Don’t search
Don’t wonder
Don’t ask

The wind has picked up again
though the calendar has turned
too many times to remember
the last time that we spoke.

Leave him at peace
He isn’t here
He isn’t found
He isn’t ever again

The sun felt its way up my face
across my cheeks that pudged
to delight the smile that escaped
in spite of the heart’s sadness.

Leave him at peace
for the light warms
for the sound hums
for the view stuns

Leave him at peace
He’s everywhere
He’s nowhere
He is

A Ride on a Yellow School Bus in March

A strong March
sun comes through
the dead of winter fields.


I feel like
a cat on a window sill
eyes squinted
fur fluffed out.

I doze - whiskered smile.

Soon Enough

Tires run through
melted snow fallen
lusty birds warble
filtered light not
darkest hour.

Wind whistles on
beatened hatches batten
though cold remains
longer days still
startle me.

Clocks pull ahead
loose grip tightens
slow the turn
time kept for
frozen stupor.

Life comes back
soon enough.

Fear

Black ice
headlights flash
back across
tomb stones.


Sluggish sun
dawn dark
fog rolls
onto lane.


Holding breath
child’s game
holding off
spirits - death.

Him

I love a dead man
his corpse arms
hold me
as whiskey wets
my tongue.

He comforts me
his scent
wraps me
in a quilt
of memory.

I don’t know him
anymore
can’t hear
his voice
in my deaf ear.

The quiet
brings him
to me
and I believe
he has come.

Snow Birds

Some find comfort in the warmth
of a January afternoon lying on a
beach surrounded by lizards
not made of the stuff to weather
a dip in temperature or foot of snow.

Tramping through a temporary thaw,
I imagine life on the farm with
boot tracks leading to the chores
of the cold months when the work
winds down and quiet is observed.

More than the vitamin D that the sun
soaks into skin been covered in wool,
the hawk’s holler is the calming balm
that resets the mind to natural rhythm,
the tuck of down smoothing time’s lines.

Bird seed escapes out of the feeder -
gloved hands clumsy on the refill,
squirrels are happy for the slop
just as the pigs ain’t complaining of
the scraps of meats not summer’s salad.

The air is champagne chilled and bubbly
causing a nose drip and icicle fingers;
the birds come calling, feathers fluffed,
happy visiting the feeder close to home
in the still evergreen at the back of the yard.

The male cardinals sport bright red-
their breasts full and hips slim;
the woodpecker is colored demurely,
his constant tenor of beak to tree
entertaining the flutter of wings and seed.

Sand does not track into this house,
hot tea returns warm to the senses,
through the kitchen window, winter;
weak hearted souls lost to its beauty
have regrettably flown foolishly south.