Someday we’ll look back, I hope, and you won’t believe how I used to sit and let doubt and red wine carve me out from the inside in measured small sips, hardly maudlin, just knowing how how many laps it takes to cross the night. Then I’ll say hope is an albatross, and hope that you’ll see not just Dickinson and duality– harbinger of good omens, and doom– but also the sea stretching on for […]
On one of the last undecided days, it was a comfort to wake from strange dreams, derived from the keeping of odd hours– not mine to have. The sky is dead dull, won’t even play at being day, this empty house exhales stale heat and this beige curtain oscillates a bit, this houseplant unfurls a new burnished leaf– Still life, still life.
Slate gray lake a moving slate each crescented line a mark and an erasure. He said here lies he whose name was writ in water and so is everything– nothing completely old, or new, the same wave, different molecules. From this house on a hill the South end of the lake appears to glow from within now and then, a thinning of overcast skies, more sophistry, set against snow-dusted hills and block print vineyards, stark […]
The road paved in ice and that damn owl playing hopscotch on the roof all night. The room too warm, the smell of snow came in a cracked window at three, such an unbecoming hour, and it seems there will never be enough– I mean, there isn’t a leap or reach that isn’t preface to a landing.
Exactly when does it cease to be night and qualify as dawn? What percentage of light? There are very few real endings and even those we only recognize well well after the fact, hidden as they are in obscure actions, the turn onto a road, or emptying a glass.
The road paved in ice and that damn owl playing hopscotch on the roof all night. The room too warm, the smell of snow came in a cracked window at three, such an unbecoming hour, and it seems there will never be enough– I mean, there isn’t a leap or reach that isn’t preface to a landing.
Snow, flat cold, a perfect veiling of place, except in the midmorning sun by the rabbit run it’s melting a bit, still there may be more to come and for once I long for it, for enforced simplicity and stillness, how softly and subtly it comes down to transform the landscape even as I watch.
Insistent owl at dawn– clouded, it may snow, but it’s undecided, still dumping in the mountains, and somewhere, someone is traveling someplace else.
Quick cold when the sun fell behind the butte, but this day was longer than the last, and so will tomorrow and the day after that. A pink-gold glow on distant snow– not many people came out this far this year, the road is quiet and distant lights reflect off the lake, so warmly, a small city, now, under a waxing crescent– still a coyote slinks down the street, hills and culverts enough of a […]
The unbelievable brightness of snow, coming from low gray the mountain pass was a different day set inside a bleaker one. Only thirty minutes to make it through the graphic reach of trees, the whole wide scene a black and white book for new born eyes, awe displacing fear entirely, for a moment the hard rime, the steep grade descent, forgotten, lost in the story that ends with: even in all this there’s a kernel […]
OPTIONAL POETRY 