16 February 2013

after the cold snap

light winter rain ticks
through bay laurel.
i watch ducks.

where does the bright
edge of this grey misted morning
enter the page?
the paper glows and
the black ink shimmers -
some duckweed still green
after the cold snap
clings to the bank of
the slough that drains to the bay.
too hazy to see the
other side.

it's not a trick or conjecture
that we are real.
look around.
listen to that raven rattle his talk
somewhere above me and
the canopy.

05 February 2013

studies in geneology

this morning reaches under
the ribs -
(last time i complain
about these wounds,
i'll tell you this.)

    i'd tell you the words
    my grandmother spoke,
    had she ever lived.

try to see the oaks on fire,
in flames.

    the worst of it has passed.
tongue lost,
hair torn -

these storied peaks

     and ridgelines like collarbones
beneath her chin.