Poetry

we drive to see a house ablaze in light ...

Like one awakening from a dream he hears lake water lapping in his heart believes it to be his destiny or doom.

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 ...