Walking Away

They say no trees touch the sky
but my feet scrape as I walk
starting to understand my place
in the order of things

The sky 
regularly celebrates itself
with showy flashes as should I
but they don’t last
that is the definition of sunset

Those trees
are firmly rooted here
no one has to tell me
they thrive despite neglect 
and even outright hostility

As a girl
I was told to pick up my feet
when I walked
but the sky makes its own rules
and no one tells trees what to do

Which is all fine and good
except I know
what happens to trees
when we humans assert our place
in the order of things

Still the sun
will rise and set tomorrow
in flames or mostly unnoticed
my feet
a bellwether for what’s to come

Sylvia Plath would have been 87 years old today.


Where There's Smoke

I hope the sun
warming my respite
ignites infinite 
dormant fuses
that have waited 
their turn to burn
everything down
including the smolder
in me

For Just One Word in the Imaginary Garden: DYNAMITE


This Week's Share


There’s lettuce in my coffee
as I navigate a volume
of produce from this week’s share
seven pounds to be exact

In a break from chopping kale
I learn that Donald Hall has died

Guess it’s not so surprising
I just then had been thinking
about what aging feels like
in the extremities to be exact

So let me raise this cucumber
to farms and poets and living

Honored that one of my poems is included in Silkworm 12, the annual review 
of Florence Poets Society. What a gorgeous volume, full of gorgeous poems! 

Florence Poets Society is such a warm and generous group, full of support and talent 
and inspiration. I'm grateful to our members, and to have a role in publishing Silkworm. 
(I'm the producer, behind the scenes.) Bravo for poetry!


No Further

As nights 
               are darker
  the hollow 
 between my hips
         grows sharper
    tastes bitter
              sounds minor
and I find
    I cannot write 
about the moon
your hands 
 any longer

Commissioned Piece (Untitled) @mc__monster
Used with Permission

For Kerry’s Art Flash prompt: McMONSTER
I was trying for a 55 but got this done in 30.



I leave
my night-window
to let
my dream-demon
Otherwise --

My son Jack drew my dream-demon.
Inktober prompt: CRACK 



Found a scrap 
on which I had scribbled

    We must find
    your cheek color
    before the sun explodes
    so your shoes don’t melt

Color rises 
and my heart melts a little
with the earnestness

Maybe, MAYBE I’ll participate in Inktober this year!
My daughter is doing it. No promises, but this is for the prompt: MELT