Before a Colorado Sunrise Haiku

walk out, says the dawn
as I tumble from warm sheets
into a down coat.

so much green in last
night’s layer – I cannot tell
snowfall from sagebrush.

to have a sense of
place is to have a sense of
the cloud veiled mountains.

snowflakes melt onto
fresh yellow buds – gratitude
is not word enough.


Alternate Universe on a Friday Night in Ridgway, Colorado

Her long pink scarf
trails a bright wake
across the setting sun
as she screeches to a stop
in her 1968 aquamarine
Camaro convertible.  Jump in,
she says without even looking at me,
and I understand that I
am not supposed to use
the door.  It is still too cold
to have the top down,
but we don’t care
because night belongs
to the rebel soul,
and the streets
are alive with music,
so much music.

Blue Truck Particle Theory

The blue truck in the driveway
is a reminder of how it used to be,
except that these days
the edges are softer.  Already,
the porch lights have been turned on.
That never happens anymore.

A mother and a daughter sing together
on the way home.  The high notes
are hard so those are the loudest. They are
happy that no one is listening.
They are happy to be two girls
singing.  They are happy.

The boys are home already.
“The Boys.”
We don’t say that much anymore.
But here they are,
the porch lights on, the soccer game,

Tonight we watched a film
about scientists crashing subatomic particles
into one another in search of the single crumb
that might unlock the mystery of us
and of the universe.  When the key was discovered,
everything became harder to explain.

Perhaps it is not the answer we need at all,
but rather the opportunity
to let the old theory die,
to settle at last into a new darkness,
so that we may finally come home to
an unexpected light.

A Little Inspiration

At breakfast, my children point out
how the shadow of my lips falls perfectly
on the vase full of white cherry blossoms

and how, by moving them in an exaggerated fashion
to the words of their favorite song
which happens to be playing,

they are inspired to release peals of laughter
all over their scrambled eggs with cheese, which is
of course their secret way of saying

that they do not need for me to tell them
that today is going to be

Time Fly

We talked the other day
about black holes

doing all of their sucking in
of everything and such.

Your lids are closed and so
I watch the yellow wasps returning

to the dark hole beneath your porch
where certainly they must be building

something like a home.  Unknowingly,
they lead my eyes

to some quiet mystery,
the black hole of this very house,

because how else
could we possibly explain

what has just happened
to the afternoon?

Dusk and Sunshine

I see it now,
riding behind you,
the trail unfurls,

at last more green
than brown.  I am startled
to be looking at myself.  Your hair,

my hair, your movements,
my movements.  And yet,
there is so much

that remains unwritten –
so much of you
that is only yours,

your life opening up
like this very river.  And so,
I see you also

as wholly yourself, perhaps
for the very first time,
or at least for the first time

in this particular light,
as the sun sets below
the San Juan mountains,

and we bounce along
over the mossy banks,
over the stones.


By the green river,
you suspend your silence
to discuss matters,

the big
and the not so big,
and this is why

the riding of bikes
with a good friend
is so joyful –

the togetherness, but also
the alone

as you fly
on the edge of recklessness
past the boulder

and the cactus
that imbedded itself
in your thigh last spring.

It is in the resting
where the sweetest stories
are woven,

and where
you might notice
three white butterflies

who dance together
before becoming
two again.