Pink Moon

Night sky opened 

and poured out

the water necessary

for flowers to bloom

as they are apt

to begin in April.

But it rained,

the brightest moon

sulked above clouds

shining no pink,

but pulling it out

of the buds

ready to show.

Shards

The birds, yes, lovely songs

for long walks along deserted streets

in Spring when they populate trees

and nestled into evergreens to 

build summer homes. Even the 

cat’s ears pick up and her tail fluffs

to the droning chirp that is constant.

But on this walk, wanton along a road

without sidewalk, gray Nissans and 

Ford pick-up trucks unaware that 

feet hug the line that is painted to

indicate a shoulder, not much really,

that keeps me in line on the route.

The birds, yes the birds, sing, but

I cannot see them, so I look for

something else to savor.

Staring down at my feet so that 

I don’t trip on bubbles of ashphalt,

the road is littered with shards 

of metal and glass carelessly thrown

from the cars that move too fast along.

Shards of glass I have seen before,

not by accident or torn from steel,

in portrait depicting a story from a mind

not quite like the others on the block

hung in a museum of others who

envisioned the shards of their mind

and unusual materials to create

something whole, purposed.

Oh the birds, yes, I hear them,

but I will look for guidance in the litter,

find patterns in pieces of broken

glass and strips of torn rims and plates

to make sense of the shards of thought 

that scatter mosaicly in my thoughts

as the season changes from frost to song.

Clouds

Over ripe, hung low

from heaven’s branches, 

I suppose-

or the sky for those 

who believe in science

and have lost faith in an

exalted power;

but to the clouds,

hung heavy

forming a dome blocking

any sunlight or set-

dismissive of our collective

need for it to drop &

soak into the ground;

somewhere, above it,

perfect fruit lies-

science or God

be damned, for 

the joy in the break

is my wish alone.

End of March

Windows cleaned

for spring

to shine

on through;

salmon pink

tiger striped

darkening sky

settled instead.

Quarantine

The window was opened for the cat to perch 

to get a sense of the young spring air; suddenly, 

flurries interrupted hope of a southern breath 

as they blew through to the warmer room like

phantom flakes - shimmery and iradescent

in all of their hundred hurries through the screen 

dissolving on sight leaving no trace of existence.

The room that had once sparkled grew dreary and dull;

the cat jumped off the window ledge and withdrew,

her tail up and march away indicative of what the delight’s

disappearance had meant for she and I who looked for 

respite from the quarantine that had caught us up inside:

hers as a feline drawn to March’s sudden bird song,

me, the threat of a bacteria let loose in my lungs.

I didn’t exit the room as quickly as the cat for hope

that a few errant snowflakes would still cross over

even though the outside cold burned through my throat

and I burrowed under a blanket to tame the chills.

Snow Globe

Snow falls to quiet

a morning of winter

unsettled by cold

a bird calls

from the wire

along the evergreens

that block salt

spit out by

predatory dumps

garden chimes

undisturbed 

by the flurry

enjoy the respite

from northern blows

sedated by flurries.

I'll See You Again

God willin’

if the creek don’t rise,

I’ll see you again.

Tho’ you weren’t ever mine to hold,

you held my name, 

called it out for strangers to hear-

it didn’t mean much to me then,

but now, as time has passed,

I find that you weren’t lying.

I can feel it most days

even though you’re gone.

It beats in a step next to my stride;

I’ve lost the details and sense that I knew it all;

but the big feeling, the one that you sent 

when you shouted my name,

breathes. The diaphragm draws in and out

beating the rhythm of us.

And if the creek don’t rise,

I’ll hear you say my name next to me.

God willin’, I’ll see you again.