trilling robins —
out of low, rolling cloud,
the ball of the sun;
two years have come and gone
without the smell of rain


just over
the ridge
that world
that goes on
forever


three days I’ve waited
for you to cross the bridge
to my house;
at night, hearing hard rain
and a distant torrent


one flash
and it was gone —
a meteor,
at the time of sunset,
seen through honeysuckle vines


following a route
of many twists and turns
a butterfly joins me
for rest within the sanctuary
at the edge of the windy field


ever see a flea
under a miscroscope
at about 200x ?
that is the meaning
of bio-diversity


there's a house
far back in the summer woods
I’ve visited for years . . .
a noon-hour nap is still
my only way to get there


around a corner
away from the casino,
where the noise fades —
a fresh breeze
and bright moonlight


a desert behind us,
the coolness of a grotto
white with trilliums . . .
on either hand clear water
pools from hidden springs


the summer night
makes a soft sound
behind me,
closing the gate
in the garden


in warm weather
after darkness falls
building a fire
just big enough to light
our faces for conversation


four lines deep
into the first poem
of the day—I pause
airing my white whiskers
in the morning coolness


coming upon children
stoning a crow
broken in a cornfield,
the cold twilight
of an autumn day


the night train
blows through town,
scattering leaves
and my dreaming, too,
down the iron rails


adding to the sounds
on the clear morning air,
the slap of laundry —
up and down the river bank,
the polish on the stones


squelching through mud,
out of the valley we climb,
hunting mushrooms—
our dispute abandoned
to that single purpose


among five questions
I might ask the cosmos
there is one
about the speed of darkness
I keep to myself winter nights


tonight
I’m going out to count
the stars —
if you wait up for me
I might bring back a few