A Love Poem

With eyes
that do not
look away,

you listen
to my breath
as the sky paints

sunlight onto
midnight blue.
Like a bird

made of courage,
you fling words
off a morning cliff

before you know
if they have
wings to fly.

I want to bury my face
in your downy feathers
while you teach me

to love
like this morning rain,
early and generous,

and to receive
like thirsty ground.
Pink clover blossoms

dapple the grassy
hillside. There are
more today than even

yesterday. Everything
is finding its way
toward opening.

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Morning Porch

Springtime opens
on the morning porch.
The woodpecker rat-a-tats

on cottonwood as we talk
about evolution. This bird, you say,
watched too many feathered peers

die on the dirt
eating worms, so he took
to the trees,

where he rapped his beak
against brown bark
until he found

the first sweet bug.
And in the sunshine,
we are evolving too –

from something that was
into something that is.
I am startled

by how easy it feels
to fly away
from familiar ground,

into the green branches
with you,
your feet folded

like wings in my lap,
the morning smell of coffee
and unbrushed hair.

Love Poem for a Town

The second law
of thermodynamics
states that heat flows

from an object
with a high temperature
to that with a low,

until both objects
reach an equal state.  I am
beginning to understand

that we work this way too,
as we sidle up
to one another to absorb

the grief and the joy,
the breakthroughs,
the births

and passings,
the discoveries,
the recoveries – our

cellular kelvins equalizing
in this sacred bowl
between the white mountains.

Love on Sunday

It is the February night
wrapped in a thousand

blankets, it is new snow
falling and wine in a ball jar,

a room ripe with music,
a bathtub full of reflection. It is

the way fire rises up
and up to become

the air. It is the weight
of a body. It is an answer

without a question,
a reason with no

reason, it is tears
falling into still water.