the sunset










a poetic exercise in wanderlust
painstakingly blending
red, purple, garden thyme
to reflect fields of splendor
a cup of summer water

The last page of my yes-words journal. Pasting in hard copies of the poems…then what should I do with it?


all winter wanting

to do something color-splashed
important as love, a layered thing
to be peeled and savored, sparkling

within, remembered like first spring sun
on your skin, green finger-strong snapping
of marigold heads, spilled apart and all

feathered seeds teased out, cast on
to wind or soil or sand

Building the Dollhouse

Firstly, and to my surprise
it gets me out of bed, mornings.
Planning the work—all this trim
cutting, paint, glue. What to do
while waiting for things to dry.

I wish I’d known sooner
not to keep these projects
out of sight, out of mind (spiders
gliding between rough-ridged
roof and basement window).

No, put it smack in the library
incongruously turquoise and yellow
in the mellow, bookish front room.
Cover the writing table with stuff
like paintbrushes, sandpaper, tape.

We said we would. We will.
From piles of unlabeled wood
like any noble endeavor, bit by bit
imperfect. You need to cheer
each day’s slight progress now

that we’ve stopped pretending
you care about construction.
Waiting for the decorating
you are here for color consults
to tell me when I have blue in my hair.

Daffodils in January

two centuries since Humboldt
we’re still wrecking earth’s balance
forcing nature to our needs

(my natural need for warmth
told by breath of bright color
gracing gray winter window)

Flowers yearn, hungry as humans
else why their open throats, singing
colors arching to the sun?
There is a clamor here
a desperate pick me.

I have been reading Andrea Wulf’s book about Alexander von Humboldt, The Invention of Nature. Also keeping forced daffodils (and hyacinth) in a pot.