And yet

the world has me too:
its dips and rises, that
light I chase from one
end of the day to the other,
the always-beginning-again
a needle that threads floss
through loop after loop
in a chain making daisies
and clouds and rain—
So near sometimes, so close
to gossamer joy I think
almost if I closed my eyes
I might find, by feel,
the coat that I rent,
the love that was lost,
the house that the years
ransacked to ruin.


In response to small stone (229).

Overhead, the thin high whistle of a tree sparrow—

This entry is part 4 of 31 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Spring 2013


Does it mean the gods are always watching,
does it mean You there, don’t get too happy, too proud,

too comfortable, too far ahead of yourself? Does it mean
abandon all hope for no good deed goes unpunished,
and only the fat, well-heeled, well-fed, undeservedly

happy are sure to get that reward plus bonus they don’t
even need? Perhaps I have thrown caution out the window
and forgotten how to be circumspect. Perhaps

the bittersweet blooms, the new buds of hydrangea pushing
out from winter’s brown bramble have plucked at a nerve—
and also the speckled blue eggs only big as my thumb

that some snake, trawling the garden, must have found.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.


Just look— how each
skinned thing sheds flake
after flake of surface,

detritus of dead cells and dust—
But how the callus grows in layers,
proportionate to the weight

and frequency, the heart leaning
hard into the wood, that place
where music hides—


In response to small stone (226).