LEAVING

We walk from window

to window to see trails

of chrome yellow sparks,

how they arc and stream

across one another or

swerve in their travel

or shoot straight outward,

as if forsythia were metal

held against a grinding wheel.

Morning is the stone

that can sharpen our words,

but we speak of how the sparks

withstand the rain, aren’t cooled

but brighten against gray sky,

how the cardinal smolders

among the branches.

Where sparks should be

but aren't, we say deer have browsed.

Where sharp words would be

but aren't, we say look.

 

WEB

Light clings to your face

this morning as you enter

the house. Follow me,

you say. Sleep bridges

my eyes, and I wobble

with limbs left stiff

from struggles in dreams.

I suspect that you are drawn

to the spun silk sparkling

with dew, you have this love

of jewels and lace. We crouch

and look together, so close

that our shadow takes on

eight legs, crawls over

webs, testing the strength

of strands strung over

dry flowers and branches of yew.

 

Acknowledgments

These poems appeared in the following magazines, anthologies, or newspapers: “Perfect” and “What May Come to You in Sleep,” Hello, Goodbye: Stories, Essays and Poems For the 21st Century. “Forsythia,” JAMA. “Grief,” Passages North. “Rain,” The Buffalo News. “Leaving” and “Web,” Passager. “Unexpected,” Celebrations: Poetry and Prose For the 21st Century.