A LOVE SONG
You are my antidote, my smile-maker,
my ambrosia: soul-shaker, fuzzy,
unevolved, big-footed,
intensely interested inspector
of my nooks and crannies;
impatient towel-grabber,
you dry me vigorously
as you would a wet pup.
Moan-maker and breath-taker,
sign-giver and thirst-slaker:
my indelible lover.
You are welcome
to pasture your sheep
in my valleys.
Pedantic, goofy, a poor loser,
you teach me off-key love songs
and I will sing faithfully now
until time
snaps shut
like a fan.
WEATHER REPORT
The house looks strange since the power went out,
as though the living left some time ago.
By candlelight I walk a shadowed route
through rooms I loved but now I do not know.
Sparrows huddle in trees outside the door.
I'd let them in but it's no warmer here.
Inside, a grayness settles to the core
and frost is taking all that I hold dear.
The fire has burned to embers; the light dies.
Love ends too, sometimes without a reason.
There can be no gray colder than your eyes
looking past me to some summer season.
Ice takes the naked bough to which I cling,
the storm front drives south: there will be no spring.
A TIGER LILY IN A SHOT GLASSThere's a tiger lily in a shot glass
among the scatter of books on my desk.
This seems to symbolize something,
an incongruity, maybe a philosophy.In the kitchen, a friend
who volunteered to fix the drain
is swearing and throwing tools around.
I could do this myself without the fanfare.I carry the lily to him for an opinion.
He says to throw the flower away
and fill the glass with whiskey,
then goes to his truck to get a bigger wrench.
GLIMPSES
The burning bush is everywhere,
messages flame beside the road.
Meadow mist and sea mist,
pumpkin and brine.Beneath small trees,
leaves curl like crumpled hands.
A red leaf on an old stone,
a crow on a wet street.Firelight dances on ceiling beams,
tracing the shoulder of a mastodon,
a curve of tusk, a wild eye.
Reaching through the dark, I touch you.
RECONNAISSANCE
I’ve gone ahead a ways
and now report to you.
This is a dry land, sun-bleached and quiet.
There’s the sharp scent of sagebrush
hot stone and dust,
a shimmer of heat waves,
a sky blue-white and cloudless.
As instructed in the manual,
I dug a hole on the inside curve
of a dry riverbed,
and in the shadows of evening
found the sand was damp,
and a patch of tuberous plants
with palatable roots.There are stained artifacts
of bone and rock left behind
by others who lived in this land.
I wonder what path they took to get here,
how much baggage was lost along the way,
and whether anyone
sent a report I missed.