In the rocking chair
porch side in the rain,
sleeveless and rocking
on thoughts of
how we all grow
back to our roots,
like the professor
in the 1975 drivers license
that I took from his house
on the final move out –
his face in mine
but younger then,
my father,
like the poem
my uncle wrote
and read to say goodbye
about the music
and the freedom
that is coming
back to me now
and the flowers
unfolding in the rain
by this rocking chair,
porch side.

Slate River Road

Our tent is small
for snuggling, they say
and we three

like peas
curve into each other.
For a long while

I linger at the edge
of dream, listening
to the river

and the stones,
to their sleeping
and to the melody

of rain that comes
and goes,
until stillness beckons

and the door-zip
unleashes a canopy
of stars so thick

it is hard to imagine
any one of us could ever be