Through the window, quiet rain.
Through the window, a woman’s
hands arced in morning prayer.
If not rain, I would be a Thumbelina
sliding into the silky bell-bottoms
of flowers. If not hands, I would be
the day cupped between,
If a flower, I would proceed brazenly
blossom by ecstatic blossom
down the winding April streets.
If the day, I would warble amazed
through all my encounters.
And if from a dark cave of longing
came the strength to thrust aside logs
of bark mulch, I would say love
itself sprouted green and slender
in the sun-slanted garden.
From across the room, you come
toward me. What would it take
to meet the horizon most feared
and sails flapping, drop anchor
in the storied harbour of your arms?
Through the window, the steam of rain
falling now into light, the backyard
cedars leaning toward us, generous
limbs outstretched, as if to say—
all it takes is yes.
Another older poem, first published in North Shore Magazine in 2008.
A woman walked by in a white silk dress
that had gathered, stem by fallen stem
a dozen deep-throated roses and
spread them, lollipop red
knee to bodice
a woman in June, high heels clicking
chamomile hair poured straight
over shoulders, her purse: the sheer
nodding happiness of a flowerbed
buzzing with tongues.
As it is now June and summer is upon us, here’s a poem from way back, first published in North Shore Magazine.
a glory of suns
within hand’s reach
the arbutus twists
through shadows to catch the light,
from their long green stems:
one red, one white tulip
a lonely ridge of trees
has scaled the heavens
in a restaurant:
tables apart, blue eyes
feast on brown
downtown lunch hour:
all my faces
How do you open the bottle
when you are
that which is poured?
These also appeared in North Shore Magazine many many moons ago.