Lake Michigan in February
Shot with IPhone 6Plus

Widow's Weeds

Crepe is draped
across the canopy
of the bedposts as
I lie in repose.

Heavy skirts sweep
the wooden floors
picking up dust-
unsettling past.

I lock my hair
in an ornament,
yours too fine
to scissor cut.

Jet courses through
veins vacant
of life lived before
you came

and went.

Planting Bulbs

Warm soil still,
the trowel
slips in next
to Earth’s worms
burrowing beneath
frost lines
as temperatures
drop.

I dig
to plant,
spelling green
to push out
of ivory bulb
and tissuey skin
to force a bloom
another year.

She watches,
leaning against
the kitchen sink,
her birds
still hanging North,
‘I can’t wait
to see the
tulips, next Spring.’


An Eclogue: Water Shots

The concrete sizzled     sunshot
sand littered its path blown from the beach
in waved ripples leading to the lake-
peeling off layers of hoodie and Jordan’s,
tiny granules
locked into
the cracked heel
of her sockless foot.
The memo shut off water-
city school kids drown
in pools or beaches,       in puddles collected
on the streets of embattled gutters
or an open fire hydrant.

Carefree,
she followed conspirators to a fountain
built in the renovation of the old beach house
on the south side           usually left out.
Let me do this      away from the corner on the block -
bullets popping me to get someone else -
I need to cool off from this heat - real talk.

Sliding sideways through the circled rifles of water,
she giggled joyously in folly
fearlessly.     her foot on a fountain,
to the delightful screams of others-
she moved,
it shot her.


Nightmare

All we had
were pints
at the bar,
not enough
to hang
a hat on;


shouting
through
the din-
sitting close
to hear,
not connect.


But his skin,
remembered,
covers me
at night
like snow sans
paw prints;


the quiet,
resilient
to interlopers,
muffles
fear-
lullabies a
good night.


For It Is Spring

Snow floats
quietly on evening
vanishing before
hitting ground;

April’s cruel joke
on crocus and daffodil
huddle shivering
under baby's blanket;

sluggish earth
absorbs icy dew
quenching tubers’
winter thirst;

for it is spring.

Little Pink Houses

And I fell in love all over again
Listenin’ to a rock n‘ roll station;
I met my own boy from Indiana who thought-
ain’t that America, we’re something to see baby.


Smart as a whip and head full of dreams,
I blushed, "Boy, you're gonna be president."
I’d slide next to him on the worn leather seat
when he’d pick me up in his Cadillac Brougham,
I would swim in the blue of his eyes as
he whispered in my ear pulling me closer,
"Hey darling, I can remember that you could stop a clock."


And there’s winners, and there’s losers
and I’ve lost him to all these years
But they ain't no big deal ‘cause I am still
Listenin’ to a rock n‘ roll station
and I can hear his tender promise
Little pink houses, babe, for you and me.