Our pages still bare, we rise/ from our desks to put on sweaters.// Gusts strum the windchime all morning

I have to be the oldest/ Person in line. The kids look/ At me with smiles/ On their faces, ask me if I need/ Help

It's not much of a jump/ from cheating on the field to cheating off it/ And that's what I did:/ I knew it was wrong and

French fries soused/ in vinegar and mayonnaise and/ nestled in newspaper so/ grease weeps into/ yesterday's

The heat of Indian summer/ put down to the earth’s magic/ spell on the stretching bed of/ the autumn foliage

The hoot of an owl/ Deep in the woods/ I cherish the sound/ It leaves me spellbound// I go for a walk/ Deep in the

Even the best outlined plans shrink/ when laid out to dry. Inevitability is,/ at best, a raw deal unless you’ve bought

There is a box still filled with things./ For over a month it has been in the hallway./ Dust has gathered around

I’m ready once more/ for the pale pages of books,/ for words and their occupants/ to crowd my heart again.

When I boarded the train, my hands were empty,/ and I knew nothing of where I should go./ Only that I needed

I climb on an aged swing in the middle of night/ verdant wind blows up unsettled hairs/ swaying with both hands

The world is vastly different during a walk/ through the neighboring forest/ as birds define territory and song.

I know that I am getting older/ I’ve got dodgy feet and a frozen shoulder/ I remember times when I

My mind is an ocean/ where swimmers, surfers,/ sun worshippers cavort.// Long salty hair/ held between/ their

Ice in my veins,/ burnt blood./ Gentle gestures remove/ snowflakes from my pale face/ and placid eyes fixed on

It's just a moment—not/ worth much—where I'm/ holding the ladder/ for Lili. I look up at her/ in her p.j. bottoms, her

A hard day,/ A hard night,/ What makes life hard?/ Hurdles in life?/ A huge struggle,/ Vigorous efforts,/ To win

His absence unnoticed,/ he liked to write poems/ on white birch bark,/ catch the intuition spark/ between midnight

Glimpses and shadows that speak/ From the corner of my eye do I see/ Memories passing— growing antique

We walk to the riverbank and we sit,/ and we stare./ Sunlight filters through passing clouds,/ warming our necks