Poetry

I am a little world made cunningly whose every element spirals down mirroring the world outside ...

There is a road that goes out at night into the dark inside us all.

But here I sit, half blind, life two-thirds gone, musing and sipping coffee on the deck of Latte Balcony ...

The week you died, the Russian tanks rolled into Ukraine through gauzy snow like this. Your brothers joked that Putin waited to invade till you were gone.

You moved into the blue as we watched, shorebound. Speaking words of meaning, the pastor dipped you back. Engulfed for a moment, then with a rush you rose.

Have you ever desired a carwash for the soul rushed right up to those retractable doors ...

Back in 1825, David Dougas packed your kin on a ship to London, where sales of their seeds alone repaid the cost of his expedition.

From the very top of Grey Butte, the peaks and canyons of Yosemite flash around us as they do.

If ever a day so deceitful, so promising in its delicate sunshine, you’d stow all the wools and flannels, change out storms for screens ...