Poetry

Snow sieves over the lawn like and angel's torn eiderdown minus the comfort ...

This mountain home weathers backwards ...

There were no ropes just a net of hands to catch me ...

So many of those I've loved have paid their last debt to nature ...

At first, a block away, there were cornfields, the fields of Rengel's Farm ...

And Adam knew his wife, who through the knowing bore Cain. You are handsy in the Uber ...

From my mother blue eyes watching from the fringes like a rabbit in long grass ...

Once I believed in You, still do, though belief is often evasive, often abstract ...

quick breath, heart beat clock strike: each metronome tick-tocks past paths that arch like R's bowl, back by another route ...