Scattering Garden

The bushes bear

no seed in winter.

Mourners stand

on planks

of a wooden arch.

They release ashes

onto rocks below,

a sea of blank faces.


Spider’s Stance

An alabaster stone,

smooth as the rock which bore it

and washed it by the stream –

among grainy bits of speckled white,

stood a spider.

It turned – paused – positioned,

its body, thick and copper,

reared like a wild mustang

in the western plains.

I swallowed my fear,

careful not to exhale,

breath held in suspension.

Waited – then it hustled down into a gully

and I skipped that stone across the stream.



Who pushes the wind past cheeks stinging harsh

through a window slit on desks scattering

words lying in print: neither you nor I.

Emerson’s beauty?

Frost’s dark design?

I have stood against the wind, screamed its name

as it raged destruction on rooftops, dismantled birches

to its will and stole a lover’s locket

up into concealed blankets of smoke grey.

I have welcomed the wind, whispered its name

as it swirled droplets of warm salt air,

carefully lifted a child’s kite with ease

up, up into illuminated blue.


is a lost stranger to freedom in form

pushing forth the wind.

Dickinson’s soul may rest easily.


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