Not always a/ question of grace,/ endurance// More often, a/ song of float/ and preen// And you, become

Mmmm – mmmm!/ Mango moon/ Growing, ripening./ Soon, soon/ it will rise sweet,/ it will rise full,/ heavy with

A quiet hoot rings through the wood/ The flutter of wings under darkness’s hood/ Small animals creep

they cut off my wings/ to count the feathers/ like they were tree rings/ I'd like to know the number/ I wonder if

Walking the banks/ Along the river/ Waiting for life to begin/ Looking for something else/ To survive the strain

Walking in the shimmering rain/ of you, leaving the past/ in Doc Marten boots,// blue, as puddles that held

It’s important to collect something,/ my grandmother says,/ as she rinses the top of the tomato can/ from her

the minute hand of a clock/ how threatening its presence/ moving in a sweeping motion/ disturbing the calm

A butterfly floats over a wild ensemble of periwinkle/ Shy red, pink and lying orange/ Painting them a sacred white

snow-crested rooftops/ are like the sugar-cookie icing/ of architecture. They/ are a root bleached

Time was measured/ Each moment in—balance/ Fate then answered/ What exists in the futures absence?// Time

Walking,  to cross a stream/ I see a narrow plank bridge./ My eyes light up/ ten years old again./ I smile as I stride

Yield. Cross traffic does not stop./ Notice that you, nucleus of your vehicle,/ are not priority here, out of

It cracks through the air/ like an electric jolt,/ the hiss of a rattlesnake,/ the scream of a cougar./ He is out there again

She showed me her certificate,/ was most proud.// I'm not sure what it said she could do/ that she could not before

orange yellow clouds over/ the west Texas prairie are/ antlers of sacrificial bucks/ resting in peace while

you won't remember/ how you were freezing/ the first night home from the hospital;/ you won't remember/ how all

She took a seat on the ottoman/ sort of first bouncing on it first/ eager to listen from a comfy perch/ so I started

“can you touch sky yet?” he asks from behind/ “no,” I report back/ (I stretch up anyway and it feels delicious)

Barefoot, I follow the black cat/ to the pond.  Like his paws,/ my feet read the ground: wet grass;/ rough rocks, gifts