13.

 

Poetry means nothing

until you live it. 

 

So speak the truth

and do not flinch.

 

 

12.

 

Driving past the road

to your house.

 

It is a long shadow. 

It is a deep, abiding sadness,

and yet also the promise of 

something new.

 

 

11.

 

The early hour

before the sun

before work and the children's school

there is a single bird hopping around.

I find her inspiring.

What bird gets up in the darkness like this?

She and I are comrades,

seeking the peace of dawn.

 

 

10.

 

Our shadows

are the doorway into

the greatest temple.

 

 

9.

 

I have been 

restless. I

have been pacing in and out;

full moons.

8.

Here, everything I do

is prayer.  

 

Here, over the sink, 

warm water, 

flushed hands and a song, 

one pause, 

the red bird swaying  

on the feeder, 

 

the word is breath.  

 

The word is breath. 

7.

 

 

All the beautiful things come

when we don't expect.  

 

The body knows and remembers

spring

while shivering under the frost  

covered maple.  

 

Let this body  

learn  

that magic 

 

the old and the new

whispers

 

ice under my feet.

 

I am the crone and the reborn

both.  

 

6.

 

 

I haven't worked the language

of poetry into my bones.  

 

The words will break  

and reform my ribs

until there is space for the heart

and breath

both.  

 

 

 

5.

I see the lights

of an ambulance  

flickering in the dark.  

 

My neighbor's house  

seems so small  

in the wake.  

 

When the body  

breaks,

it bleeds the same

red.  

4.

 

The frost creeps in from the north.  

Inside, the dogs sleep. I hear

them breathing, slowly,  

steady in the hall. Paws resting

on cold, wood floors.  

 

The weight of the blanket

feels good on my chest.  

I imagine it is the bear  

pausing for a moment  

in the dark.  

 

 

3.

 

And then there is 

silence

that bends my chest

to the ground.

 

 

2.

 

The rain is best when it falls

at night.

 

The dog and I stand outside

together,

his ears pulled back,

while I wonder if I'm baptized

yet.

 

 

 

1.

 

The last of yuletide is a 

strand of garland. Dried orange

tied with red.

 

Dried citrus is winter.

 

It is waiting. It is a bowl

filled with water.

I gaze into my reflection and 

the surface ripples.

 

Outside, the bare maple

stands against the

gray and nothing

moves.