FOURTH OF JULY

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The night sky is bright
bursting with chrysanthemums
of fire, crackling light—

I watch them fall to darkness
not feeling independent.
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FOURTH OF JULY

AWAKE, MY SOUL

Sniff the bitter grass
teaser on a passing breeze.
Shall we plant sweet peas?

Snow lies still in the garden.
Clouds hang heavy from heaven.

Stiffened hands and feet
yearn to cut loose from their wraps
to wriggle in sun.

See how the day lasts longer.
Chickadee, where have you been?

The sun has spoken.
Shadows caress the mountain.
I call out to them

we wait for the lulling of
night crickets rubbing their wings.

Feather in my hand
crisp leaf that skitters windborne
nowhere in my head

what is this song of paper
singing itself to itself?

Now it is April
the frail old stoop-sitter smiles
but he says nothing.
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AWAKE, MY SOUL

PAMPLEMOUSSE

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In darkness I drift
drunk on grapefruit flower air
and give a small hoot
for the lone hooting owl.
The bees all know me by now.

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RUINS OF DAWN

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the morning after
we have had words—the sea is
in a cup of tea

almost the sound of falling
a tear on a piece of toast
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