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.

 

Walking with my Daughter on a Tuesday Afternoon

Your easy pace,
our portal
to the raven
hiccuping
in the tangled
branches,
and the boxelder bug
that lands
on your t-shirt
like a wish.
Your hand
pulls me to slow,
an armful
of fresh eggs
balancing,
and our dusty heels
kick just right,
as we talk about
limeade, and take
the long
way home.

 

The Most Important Thing

Stop, says the world,
so we do,
and out of the reeds
they tumble – one by one

and three by two
onto the pavement
all fluff and feather
so yellow it hurts

the heart.  The fathers
and mothers (and aunts
and uncles and friends
to be sure) guide the goslings

toward still water. Some
are weeks old, some are days,
and we hold our breaths
for the one who

changes its mind mid-
way to return to tall grass,
and again for the tiny caboose
who topples

out of sight in a puff,
popping finally
onto pavement. Participants
in this crossing,

we are welcomed
into morning,
our many stories turned
to silence.

City. Night.

Electric nightlights
ripple concrete rainwater
and a man lies tight

to the wall,
all huddle and tatter
and ankle crossed

sneakers protruding
from shrouds.  Ride up
into nighttime lifetimes,

past yourself
walking arm and arm
beneath the wistful

magnolia. They say
the streets of San Francisco
hold more lives

because of these hills,
even your tonight
body conducted

along forgotten wires,
and though you cannot
see the black water

that surrounds you,
you recognize
the days washing out

under the red bridge,
each weary breath,
each eager step

as you climb
higher and higher
into the city night.