Winter Flowers

Wooden pencils scratch
over Tuesday night
word problems

to Django Rienhardt’s
Gypsy guitar,
while outside,

the mountains
turn ripe pollen orange
like this mason jar

dripping with stargazer lilies,
long past open. This is
one of the illuminated 

moments, when you notice
that everything matters,
that perhaps

you have landed
in the quiet center
of your own wild 

and beautiful garden,
and the children,
half sprouted,

are rooted
and blooming
like flowers.


Even the
pebbles cast
black shadows
long, like
zebra stripes
across the
dusty trail.
And long,
your shadow
too, speechless
and stretching
up the
hillside ripe
with yellow
cactus bloom.
All evening,
you are
quiet with
your questions,
stopping only
to replace
the silver
grass between
your teeth,
or to
sit and
watch the
last speckled
patch of
sunlight fading
on the
river, rippled
water moving
in and
out, and
in again.

Under the Two Thirds Moon

Discover a pouch
of tobacco left by a traveler
and roll a cigarette
without the shape
of experience.
Smoke a third
and think about
how maybe this is
what poets do
(you have known
many) – some
use words,
or wisdom,
or simply spend
their hours
beauty making
beneath this moon
on a dimmer
as the light returns,
and returns again.

april’s last day haiku

twilight star balanced
on the last bit of mountain
promises us spring.

night is warm enough
for me now – the blanket light
around my shoulders.

the tire swing could not
fly any higher – with each
push they squeal it does.

green grass so still it
moves me, and underneath teems
every kind of life.

the longer I sit,
the more I understand the
relevance of trees.

something sacred rides
in on the voice of springtime’s
first solo cricket.