Poetry

Once, before children, my wife and I took a nest of fledglings to a woman ...

You’re there, but you’re not. You glance behind every so often, to those words you said as a kid.

Re-enter the world, a world where, no matter how it first happened, the spark of your conception, too, was Spirit ...

The doctor's office grants no place beyond the floor's gray lines to form and color ...

No longer bent like weighted branches or shrivelled like apples in the bottom of a bushel basket ...

We chose not to see how close it hovered. She had been sick so long we had grown accustomed to her bright scarves ...

An affinity with those men in Babylon unfazed by fire ...

Jumping from great height Planting a damaged flowe, hopeing that it wil grow ...

I doubt my final credits are quite ready to roll through so far ...