A lone bloom

leaned against

the vase’s rim

as fresh and captivating

as baby’s first grasp.





In the mornings you smoothed the sheets.
If I was up early,
I’d watch your ringed hand glide
across the textured quilt.

Once I asked why
you were left to the remaking.

No matter.

you said,

He has other work.

And I  young  (untried)
and privy to  such encounters still,
felt stupid to have asked.

Northern Mockingbird

Northern Mockingbird  Photo Credit 

With a peripheral
dart you caught my eye

and this mornings’ catch
I see –
in your ebony beak.





A thistle shot up
between the stonewall and road,
and I awaited its peak,
So close!
Those purple blooms,
I kept returning to its rooted home,
But yesterday it wasn’t there.
Some weedwacker wacked it through
I supposed,
Looking at the trimmed edge.
Such a long anticipated prime,
I almost went again today.


A Sparrow

a sparrow sharpens

his beak in two quick strokes then

darts into the birch.




Purple petunias
With  deep purple stars
streaking out from the centers
cascaded from the planter.
I watered them before we left.

They were a gift from you
and I trimmed and deadheaded
and adjusted them so well,
To please you (and myself.)

On our return they were browned
and dried out.

But there was still some green
and I could not forget
or let go of its opulence
So I trimmed, deadheaded
and watered them again
Adjusting the stems.

They may never be the same
I know –
But they might recover and
give me second joy.



And what am I ?
you asked me
I did not know what to say
Then, naked against
White sheets.

But as I wash
and hang them
on the line you
fastened taut,
I know.

You are the keystone
And I a dependent-
a spring point
to your stance,
Unmoving and vital-
My crown.


To Seed

寂寞而死的何止水手。Seedheads ,Seed Pods and Seed Picture , Photo Metaphor and Inspiration for CAPI Art Students at milliande.com, seed, pod, nature, science, plant, beginnings, life, draw, sketch, paint seeds:

The flowers in my garden have

all come to seed and like

the years before this (and the years to come)

I hope for newer blossoms

As I hold them in my hands.



Old Poem

I found one of my old poems. I would have never written it this way now but kind of like it anyways.

A Mother’s Jewelry
The pendant Hangs
regal and stately.
a book rests open
sorts of tales take shape
and pregnant words become
As they are spoken.

Still she reads, pages attend.

Her rings clink and clank.
gold shimmers stone flashes
as picture in the eye.
heart ranked, mind outflanked,

Still she reads, pages bend.

Surely such rings were forged
to be knelt before, kissed by
priests, advisers councilors of old
her veins they enfold.

Still she reads, pages descend.


At Market

Your hands hold fast against the glassed
and banded lobsters. Riveted
by these still silent cramped captives,
their stroking antennas, you stare