Poetry

The original fidget. These were made in Nafplio, where old men work them on benches in the square ...

So often still, tonight his hands flit, two birds building a nest. Washing our feet.

Trunk, bark, branch, leaf, fruit do not wholly make a tree therefore we lie a little ...

If, at the harvest, I bring you a jug of cold water, and you drink till you are drunk, I am your servant.

I became a mother, my life upended the way persistent rain today has filled the watering can, overturning it.

Down the stretch, late August: sad leftovers of once-orange day lilies.

Mid-day, a slightest shivering mist but still the sun staring over your shoulder ...

Every story has already been told and originality is dead, a student from long ago email me, one line, no greeting or signature ...

I don't know, Lord, but sometimes I feel like all my accomplishments could fit inside a Pez dispenser, with room left over for candy ...