Evening Song

the shade rises
in the evening letting in afternoon’s easiest light filtering rays sepia toned know what the day has been the sun is not ready to set entirely it rests on the sill comfortably listening to evensong tertia, sexta, nona the hours in June flirting with dusk sight unfailing lines run through battles won and lost time fades slowly the distant drop supported by years still to come in evening everlast

Fingerling

Wicker baskets
full of fancy spuds
on busy weekends
at farmers’ markets
tempt tasters.

Russian banana:
firm textured;
Purple Peruvian:
mealy fleshed;
Red thumbed:
pretty plate.

Roast’d, saute’d, boil’d,
butter’d, salt’d, pepper’d;
maybe a little virgin
olive oil and fresh garlic.

Pomme de terre-
apple of the earth,
seeing it on display,
imagining you in life,
I pick the one I want
a la dente.





Mother's Spring


On a rainy morning
she blinks slowly-
tears collecting in the corner
of her eye spilling out
over the slick asphalt
my tires roll across.

In daylight colored gray,
her soft green leaves
fluff in the wind
that will tear down
fleshy red tulip petals
previewed last week.

The rain will go away
but not before the
lay of the land is
surveyed, dug up,
and entrance’d by
the mighty gale force
that she often wields
with a strong steady,
sometimes sleepy yawn.

Out to Sea


A wave hits
from behind
and pulls me
into the surf.

Salt tears sweep
my cheeks-
my hands
cover my eyes,
pull them
across my face
like a dead sea mask.

I want to tell him
that I love him,
but the undertow
takes him out.

The Mantle Clock


The mantle clock has raced ahead twenty minutes,
it insists on living faster than me tic toc tic toc’ing.
Here in stuck, I wonder what happens in the time
warp that sits between me and the walnut wood.

If I had twenty minutes,
I’d sort through the mail,
or wash the kitchen floor,
or put away the laundry.

Instead, papers aren't graded,
dishes aren't in the way,
books are happy alone,
and the couch is lonely.

The mantle clock has raced ahead twenty minutes,
it is tic toc tic toc’ing faster than I imagined when
it came from the Netherlands where it lived before,
maybe it’s the time change that has it off-kilter.

But I’m soothed by the
knock of pendulum, and
the click that indicates
that chords will be struck.

Tic toc, tic toc, tic toc,
the sound has moved in,
settled amongst my things,
waiting for me to catch up.

The mantle clock has raced ahead twenty minutes,
it has left me in the dust that covers the floor,
its solemness the requiem for the minutes I lost 
since the day five ago that I last wound it up.

Thread


I stuck my hand
in his jacketed armpit:
shirted, t-shirted, still-
I was in.


Desire twines
every thought,
tender tendrils,
circling climb.

His pit was warm,
somewhat surprising,
his response to
physical such that
would suggest cool.

What was I doing
there with sirens
and a net he’d
find a hole in.

I pulled my hand out
clutching fibers
from its woolen vice
reluctantly curling
into a tight coil-
left weaving
thread together.