What if I were to wake before the wild/ turkey that roosts in the sycamore?// Would I look

When I was younger/ there were thoughts of/ chalking the sky and I/ preceded to rummage through

The earth unfolds/ a flower in the sun/ light/ the butterfly/ illuminates/ the afternoon/ brilliant red and

A lune poem// Soaring in the cloud/ Are the eagles/ Coasting on currents

Those winter weekdays/ my father woke me/ to lie by the warmth of the wood-burning stove he heated

The doorbell of suffering is ringing./ Through the window the sun is shining,/ and the skies are cloudless

A hummingbird flitted across the flower shelf: / A flash in the shadow / No time to tell the color of her

The late/ afternoon sun/ runs its fingers/ through a crowd/ of cattails.

There are too many/ clocks and not enough/ time.  I will take/ and save this minute/ for myself.// This minute

A ringtone makes its way through the open window/ Music is forbidden here/ Death is the

A small part of you believes an old house/ holds all its secrets, conversations,/ and lies, in

perches on the streetlight pole/ looking down and mocking me/ attached to the ground as I am

In the dark dawn these birdcalls/ mixed together in the same tangle// I have known since I have known

I lay on the soft ground/ the grass tickling my bare legs/ And push my toes into the soil/ Planting

The sun arose afresh from a sound sleep/ and the sleepy road/ was awoken by the paced commuters

I think I’ll sit awhile beside a warming fire which,/ perhaps, might be a figment of my addled brain

i think I have outgrown you/ like a too-tight sweater/ that constricts across the chest/ and scratches

snowflakes float and swirl// silence/ except for howling of the wind// as far as the eye can see/ whiteness

I never was/ and never will be/ that bride posing/ by the lake, luminous/ in her many-petaled

I was born/ on December 23, 1985// forty-one minutes// past midnight/ in Santa Teresa// Hospital off