Cold like the moon

this skimmed-milk faith
glowing a bit, a movie-god’s halo
(but blue-white, LED, not incandescent)
trembling near nightfall
under sudden river-ice


and the reason we want a plot
a cheer-heart resolution
to this hapless wandering
(eat, sleep, cry)—who is writing
your story with its cast of millions
cross-referenced, pronunciation guide
at the end?


when we stood, this close
to touching a beauty hauled round
up-horizon, the glow you would know
for all its pits and crags
until you woke again
and lost it


You think you can prepare
for sudden loss. The late call
all the what would I do if
and what will I do when…
Much like you pause in the dark doorway
before quick-crossing moonlit floor
launching into bed as if
the monster can’t reach his long hands
snatch your ankles, yank you under
even so

Long Day

for a walk to sunburned shoulders
at every compass point
the hard straight streets
same garage-box houses, pent-up
barking dogs, daffodils
trails to ponds and rivers of shopping

this afternoon privilege, having
diverted us from our childhood
revolution to a quest for happy
shoes: I am turned around

so that sitting, quiet, in the manicured yard
I am surprised to find the sun still at my back
moon still in my eyes, a single white butterfly
flitting like a dream and wanting still
to be in your arms


Prompt for NaPoWriMo Day 16 is an “Almanac Questionnaire.”

Storm Song

I go first into frosted night, flinging charms—seven
words to fend the blizzard whole while moon
sinks into clouds, swallowed in gray velvet

I’ve armed myself in furs; you red-robed in velvet
singing fireside untired, one slight flame against seven
nights of breaking cold, failing moon

No cracks in river ice, unmelted hidden moon
though your steady voice, low velvet
calls the fire. Outside alone I count slowly, seven—

seven nights until moon cuts again through storm-velvet

Thanks to Nathan for the set of tritina words, and to Jenifer, from whose very different and beautiful poem I lifted the blizzard line.

At the River Crossing

I am the child of root and air, the song
of limpid river, tumbled rocks;
my father feathered black, my mother brown
and pocket-faded, full of words.
I sing and shape the stumbles into spells
of love for Crone to honey-fill her jars,
for Wizard’s far-fetched flings at sun and moon.

Inspired by A Prompt Each Day’s midweek wordle, which sent me back to my Hiraeth-world.


No fear, here, of the long night
half a year, half a lifetime
away. We open and glow moon-
flowered, sigh with perfume
by pale stars bedewed
pity the wan, draggled dawn.

I am falling behind with my Family Poetry Project postings–but still writing every day! The kids are, too. We’re having a great time with it. The prompt for this was “Night” in 33 words or less, from A Prompt Each Day.