46 Years

not as from space, warps
or waves, spinning sun
flicker-fading like old-reel film

not in measured metronome tick
bluebottle buzz, creeping clouds
sighing for summer’s slow kiss

but inchworming along
mile on wrinkled mile
head down, determined

on this relentless, arbitrary path



I beg a word on winter.
Snow and cold are fine, but something’s missing—
the rustle-song of breeze and piercing blackbird’s call,
green-leaf ground and walls of trees,
early sun and evening alight—
will spring come soon, fair and bright?

Something lighter: an echo poem for Jane’s weekly challenge, with special-order blackbird. I was thinking that Arnold Lobel’s Frog and Toad had an echo story, but maybe I was remembering something from Winnie the Pooh?


She will chain the moon, pull it out
of season. Ice-shadows splinter
with green-breath promise to end drought.
She will chain the moon, pull it out,
strip autumn’s flaming throne to flout
nature’s sleep, hushed healing winter.
She will chain the moon, pull it. Out
of season, ice-shadows splinter…

A painting-inspired triolet for Jane’s weekly challenge.

Cabin Fever

This house is bigger than we need.
I think we would have been happy
in anything; we caved, craving
shiny-newer-better: normal

progression of creature comforts.
This house is bigger than we need.
There are no strewn toys to trip us;
the kids melt into their own rooms

and I sit at my desk or perch
on a chair, musing, deciding
this house is bigger than we need.
My wandering view, window-framed

circumscribed by another yard,
rows of sameness. I must climb stairs
for grounding glimpse of sky, to see
this house is bigger than we need.

Better late than never for Jane’s quatern challenge?