Lunar

The soft white of a
reflection is, at last, what
allowed me to see.

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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.

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.