birthed from dark
indebted to craggy
matriarch.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives,
Vernon Hill Gallery.
birthed from dark
indebted to craggy
matriarch.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives,
Vernon Hill Gallery.
mere line and arc
utterly still
no eye, no heart
imperious
simple
as vesper bell
summons to quiet
the daily
groundswell.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives,
Vernon Hill Gallery.
dogs’ high art
rug and slipper
counterpart.
This vignette
sly ablation
silent
silver-tongued
oration.
Thanks again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives,
Vernon Hill Gallery.
old-fashioned place
where all were held
in homey embrace.
Gathering, warming
by hearth and by heart
not valued for size
but as cozy rampart.
Predictable, safe
filled with the known —
it’s in my head now;
I go there alone.
It isn’t this tidy
compartmentalized
but rather like dreams
unrealized:
those who are now
and those who have been
and things that have rusted
and cracked and worn thin.
Things that I touched
with little girl fingers
kitchens and people
whose cinnamon lingers.
My keeping room holds them
for how long I can’t say
but I hold tight and hope
they won’t fade away.
Thanks again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives
and its Vernon Hill Gallery.
and hats bloom on trees
and distant blue-grey bark
summons sinuous breeze
when the fluid air
drips
with shower and chirpsichore
can we pick a hat
and join in the terpsichore?
Thanks yet again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
And happy first day of spring, dear reader!
the walls that don’t enclose
a line of sight unbroken
leafy fragrance freely flows
yet something guards, a border,
protective but unseen —
I fill my lungs and bless him,
the inventor of the screen.
Thanks yet again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
latticed
over cloudblush
thousand-fingered hands
outstretched
addio to sunset flush.
Thanks yet again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
leeched by summer solstice
in blue-shadowed caries
somnolent worm inn
twig-poulticed
its own cemetery.
Thanks again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.
What calls me?
Why do I still when I look?
No blossoming tree,
no sparkling brook,
only detritus of the year.
A cramped road
though ample for the breeze.
Whispery peace lode,
but flat binary tease:
I must abide here.
Thanks again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.