Moon Flower

Her bloom does not
stretch to touch the sun -
her trumpet petals
open to midnight sky -
call of island coqui;


in life, she lived
in shadows of convention
behind pots of beans
and flowered oilcloths
dulled by soap and scrub.


Equatorial days split
between dark - perhaps,
forgotten ambition;
and light - likely,
routine crumbs house kept;


at night, salsa beats
away from the kitchen;
the moon flower watches
orchids run up palm trees -
dancing with the dark -
her spirit rises from day’s dust.

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.