Against an indifferent blue,
the clouds are brighter,
a harder white,
than even a few years back.
The air’s seared earlier
in the mornings now;
one can taste it, raw,
at the back of the throat.
Before midnight,
sunset brings small relief;
and even then, morning’s
heat breaks early.
Lizards, not here before,
skitter across the rocks.
(June 6, 2025)
I have a Spring cold,
my chest thick with congestion.
Still, I go outside.
One must be at work,
they say, for inspiration
to find room to breathe.
Oxalis from mom’s
house in Victoria grows
beneath the iris.
Our yard is chaos
planned out from the beginning;
nature is random.
The roses need to be pruned.
A hummingbird whirrs nearby.
(April 11, 2025)
“There are always flowers for those who want to see them.”
—-Henri Matisse
we called them
by different names
the wrong names
confusing one
for some other
as if language
changed them
from what they are—
fields of flowers:
blue bonnets butter cups
primrose mexican hats
from early spring
into summer
nameless not unknown
(April 8, 2025)
Despite the despots,
despite the collapse
of oceans’ currents,
despite the anger
flowing through the streets,
the iris push up
though the garden mulch,
and roses burst into bloom.
(April 6, 2025)
Even in late Spring as light grows larger
the shadows deepen and stretch from beneath
the twisting Live Oaks. Hope’s a tricky thing:
We cling to it like dust motes in sunlight,
ever afraid it won’t be enough.
Later, the inevitability,
so obvious, stuns us into silence:
All the signs were there waiting to be seen.
Yet, we did see them slithering beneath
the lightest shadows, only pretending
what was there was not truly there at all.
And there lies the rub, our willful blindness
allows us to believe our world is safe,
and Spring brings endless fields of daffodils.
(March 9, 2024)
by
1.
three crows cross the yard
oblivious to the time, and
with nowhere to go
I spend the morning singing
as I pull weeds from the earth
2.
three crows cross the yard
then vanish in the new leaves
which cover the trees
I see only their shadows;
they are gone when I look up
3.
three crows cross the yard
their blue-black wings stir the air
with tessellations
this poem is like all the others:
old patterns within patterns
(March 30, 2023)
In almost-spring, the trees green
the bare branch tips barely while
others feign death like lovers
reluctant to leave bed’s warmth.
I resist most change until
it has already occurred.
It rarely changes that much,
that I must not plan dinner.
Although time’s rituals resist
alterations, the stitches
still fray from everyday use.
I am not much different.
Yesterday was warm and wet;
today cold, windy and clear.
four haiku with a tanka couplet
The moon in the trees
tangles between the branches
and the budding leaves.
Last night a small owl
hooted in the chinquapin
to the dogs chagrin.
A hummingbird sits
at the top of the burr oak;
the breeze barely breathes.
The brief Texas spring
moves quickly into summer.
Heat holds the air still.
The dogs lounge beneath the trees;
a squirrel fusses from the fence.
(April 17, 2022)
a friend’s letter from overseas
from a work-in-progress, “process, not a journey” (41)
cold rain
brings spring
her post arrives
too brief
yet still hope
(March 21, 2020)
1
Between the wild flowers
which have yet to bloom,
the orange tabby stalks through
the light of a spring afternoon.
2
Too cynical to listen to the gods—
I am not a Moses tending sheep; yet
flowers still enflame the yellow
rose bush with celestial light.
(April 15, 2018)
after Rexroth’s translations
In the empty classroom,
I hear the girls laugh
down the hallway.
I think of you,
who is not here.
*
early march morning
spring whispers
on the tree’s edges—
redbud, mountain laurel,
ornamental pear
*
as memory
a mist hangs above the creek
out behind the house.
by noon, it is gone.
(March 6, 2018)
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