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.


What did you forget
about the forest floor? Where
it has rained for a thousand years

or more.  Maybe all
of the answers
are lying there

in the wet black earth,
where already there is
new life growing,

and the old life dying,
and a patch of mushrooms
that you bend to collect,

the last of the season,
and you fill
your sack

with questions,
each one

The Five-Year-Old Wants Answers Haiku

Tell me again,
what did the fish look like
when it died?

If they called it
The Sinkable, then it wouldn’t
have hit the iceberg.

Do you think that
Great Grandma Joanne
is in Lost Vegas?

I want to go up
to outer space to see
all of the babies.

Will a red fox
be under our porch
every spring?

Please take me
to the bathroom.  I don’t want
to walk past the fish tank.

Letter to a Father

I want to comfort you.
can I comfort you?

I want to fly to you.
can I fly to you?

I want to fix you.
can I fix you?

I want to fill you.
can I fill you?

I want to save you.
can I save you?

I want to save us.
can I save us?

or do we sit here,
you and I,

until there is

enough room
for everything?