No longer bent like weightedbranches or shrivelled like applesin the bottom of a bushel basketNo longer circling & recirclingin unsolvable mental labyrinths my parentshave left

In memoriam, Anya Silver We chose not to seehow close it hovered.She had been sick so longwe had grown accustomedto her bright scarvesand turbans as

Jumping from a great heightPlanting a damaged flower, hoping that it will grow,Getting down on one knee to ask for marriageThese things take courage From

I doubt my final creditsare quite ready to roll  though   so far   I’ve outlived John Donne’s span  & that of so many of the poetsI admire   I

–after Ross Gay First, it’s the backyardswing and the gentlesway and me with my sappyYA novel about teenagecancer patients andyou never knewwho would liveand who

Having never spared a thought that it may hurt this muchwere I to strain my voice against a stricken & starless sky, I strain my

The perilous journey of monarchscomes every four generations. Driven by some response to the slantof the sun–some peril in the air– they strive against the

I am a little world made cunninglywhose every element   spiralsdownmirroring the worldoutside where glistening surfaces fadelike a tarnishedcrownThe planet prophesiedwhen I wasn’t listeningthroughsidewalk cracksthrough the

“They also serve who only stand and wait.” But here I sit, half blind, life two-thirds gone,musing and sipping coffee on the deckof Latte Balcony