one. headlight. broken. haiku

completely alone
or connected completely,
lines blur in the dark.

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You Cannot Know

You cannot know
in the time
right before the darkness,
when all things
are almost blue,
when the colors are here,
but not
and there is a soft feeling
in the eye
of many fabrics bleeding
together – the aspen grove,
the dusky grass,
the departing wisp
of cloud,
you cannot know
when you walk
alongside the river
to talk about love,
where the geese swim
with their rows of babies
in the eddy
and you stop on a bridge
to watch the shape
of water,
how it fans out white
over the sunken stones
or wrinkles convex,
concave,
you cannot know
and so you don’t
and are left standing,
grateful,
with your blinking eyes
facing into the center
of things.

mom sends a box of tea

mint and basil,
Longjing green, African
rooibos, rainforest
maté, mango and the lid
scarcely closes
over dappled leaves
in silken pouches.
oh, when I think
of the many rounded
hours inside of this box!
why, just tonight
my children danced
across the couches
to the steam of white orchid
as I thumbed through flavors
with the anticipation
of springtime,
of the days ahead
so full of moments,
each one delicate
as children playing
and the sweet scent
of the unexpected rain.

Full Sunday Moon

Tonight when the moon rises
you will be alone, the house
quiet – quiet as the air

that does not move one budding leaf
on the cottonwood, quiet
as the red beta sailing

through the fish tank, and inside
a stillness so sweet that you
may sit for an hour to watch

four deer chewing softly
on the lawn, and the jagged
alpenglow on the mountain –

a pink so certain that you
are sure to pay attention, remembering
that you and the world

are meant for this dusk, meant
to greet the fullness of the rising
moon, meant for grace.