night wash

-es all color dim; in a wonderless sky smeared with groundlight we strain for space, craft

-ing dread into dream: mazed, lost, shot, alone. fifty years, so unfinished in peace

-ing phase by phase, layer by layer; your maker heart left to this scream

-ing of wind through the seasons

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?

The Very Last Fall on Earth

or why the brilliance
or why have we not
noticed not grabbed
and held in our hands
ideal of ripe life
with no trace of crumble

enough? for the eye
to skip from sky
round crimson clusters
and still green grass
gem-strewn with

that light we can’t
(it has been before)
too warm too dry
too full
to take in
deepest breath
of the day held
and held
to bursting

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.

For next year’s garden

bring me canna lilies
red and gold, leaves bold
unfurling palm-like, shading
striped, streaked, splotched
great reedy canes
buds ruffled, spiraling
throats blushed
to bring bees, birds, bats
and if we can’t live on
through frost and dark
we’ll make paper, dye, beads
and music from the seeds

Playing with this prompt from Margo Roby: Wordgathering, also inspired by a gift of canna lily rhizomes from my son’s horticulture class.