Winter Solitude

A figure stands in silhouette

on frozen sand grey

seen from the window

of a rented room-

the water should be iced,

yet runs up on the shore

dismissive of season and

the cold that makes every

thing else freeze in place.

I have turned the dial

on the thermostat

to warm the air

that cycles through the room

to keep off chill and

wonder at the figure, just there,

whose coat and scarf are

the only shield

against this arctic assault.

The fluid waving water

of the winter lake,

decidedly warmer than

the meteorological temperature

that headlines newscasts-

is not below zero,

so it is not frozen;

the figure moves along side,

seemingly not in want of company-

unaware of the cold that bears down

on those in isolating shelter.

Cold

The cold is quiet;

any fluid movement

that warm allows

pulls tight to crystal

settling deftly

on windshields

and edges of lawn

to frame sidewalks.

For this moment,

on first breath,

I can hear everything

and nothing at all;

I am still.

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.