in a raft you have made of your daybed—
white cotton sheets to the rising wind,

the rope of your dreams loosening
mortise and tenon joints from the four-

legged anchor that fixed your berth
all these years: one same returning

address, the one always at home to pick up
the pieces, return them to the frame

from which they’ve fallen or come loose,
she who’s asked to pay ransom after ransom

for those who left a long time ago,
not always knowing how much it costs—

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

What does it mean when leaves blow backward
and petals leave reddened thumbprints on the ground?

What does it mean when in the frame formed
by fingers I glimpse a boat floating out to sea?

Crickets begin their chorus as the moon lifts,
thin disc of metal hoisted by invisible pulleys;

and I grow pensive with all the birds that come
to roost in the crook of the crabapple tree.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

meaningless days revolving from one predictable
ritual of domestic life to another— elementary
school drop-off each morning, followed by a trip
to the coffee shop for a half-caf or cortado;

then the spa, lunch, and shopping with her gym
buddies at the mall, after which each of them
will go their separate ways, backing out
of the parking garage and waving perfectly

manicured hands from the windows of their Volvos
or Land Rovers because Ohmygod I didn’t realize
how late it is and the nanny will be furious!
Back home, she usually pours a glass of wine

before taking the kids and the dog for a walk around
the block, her way of watching the clock, counting
down, wondering if her husband will be home
for dinner or if he’ll text to say Sorry, another

late night at the office to finish XYZ account,
which she knows is bullshit shorthand for Don’t
stay up I’ll be fucking my mistress in some undisclosed
downtown location. The Buddha’s friend sobs;

she has had it, she is leaving her 20-year marriage
to explore what it means to have an affair herself,
to take up jazz and learn scat singing; to smoke weed,
volunteer with a rock band, be their groupie and travel

around the country in a bus with no fixed
destination. Her friend’s eyes are red-rimmed
from crying. The Buddha offers her a Kleenex
and a hug, knowing that perhaps this is one

of those times just listening may be the best
approach: to be there for her without judgment,
biting her tongue so she doesn’t blurt out questions
yet like What about the kids, the dog, the house?

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

grocery store, by the succession of radio and TV ads
for jewelry and fashion, singing Hallmark cards,

cleaning services, foot spas… This time, all the hoopla
is for Mother’s Day, which means that this weekend,

it will be difficult if not next to impossible
to get any kind of reservation at restaurants,

not to mention tickets for the symphony or opera.
All the hype’s fed partially by guilt, remorse,

regret— Remember your mom: give her a whole
day off from cleaning, chauffeuring, cooking,

diapering, laundry duties on top of her regular job.
Bring her or whoever has fulfilled that nurturing role

in your life, a favorite breakfast in bed, a rose
clenched between your teeth, a card you’ve penned

with thanks you’ll never sing adequately or enough of…
Remember the greatest loves are always those which want

to be, to give, so much; which stumble and fail, knowing
they are— like us— imperfect, unfinished, yearning.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Two houses down, a frat party
in progress.

Points of itchy heat, trapunto
of sand fly bites.

In the backyard, raccoons
foraging around garbage bins,

their snouts briefly lit
by fireflies.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Clouds cast their shade,
dimming the pond’s surface.

Each leaf turns a calendar page,
fast-forwards from spring to summer.

Gardenias flood cisterns with scent,
hang their skirts along the tops of fences.

I can’t decide which is most
jewel-like: fields with their florid

kabala of scents, flotilla of
lightning bugs cutting paths at dusk.

My palms itch from an old memory of sunlight;
no one sees when I lay lay them

open on the sill as if in an attitude of
prayer. What stories are not sown with

quicksilver rain? A kind of language
passed patiently through

sleeves of cheesecloth: its message being
Take time, take time.

Unpin the cotton and linens from the line.
Vinyl records let you listen to the needle

work the music from their grooves—
Xiphoid notes drawn by hand on music sheets,

yellowed like old ivory. Watch how in a
zoetrope, shadows tell a whole story.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.