Winter Night

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After frost
feathers the windowpanes
of the small town,
a young father wakes
with blood
hissing in his ears.
He gropes his way
to where his infant daughter
lies sleeping.
Her grip firm on his finger,
the house creaking
in gusts of wind.

.

Candle

.

Light diffuses
through the room
like a diver’s lamp
in the ocean.

Light for storm nights
and chroniclers.
The light on the face
of the one you love.

The night above turns
with the slowness of the wick
unbraiding
in the flame.

.

I finally met...

.

I finally met my grandmother last night,
the one who died before I was born.
She wore a blue flower-print dress
and black stockings, a red kerchief
held her silver hair.
She showed me her seashell collection.
I told her about my brothers
and that my sister was getting married.
She smiled and asked is she beautiful?
Yes; blue eyes, like yours.
And her man has a good job?
Yes, he gazes at her tirelessly.
And you! You’re so tall!
She came over and hugged me,
her little body soft, cool.
She gave me the nautilus I had been looking at
and lay down for her nap.

.

Waiting

.

Through darkening
woods then
the sky clears,
smell of wood smoke.

Wait for the first star
of evening,
for the friend,
neither violent nor weak.

The friend. Wait
for her to close her eyes
so we both may breathe
the violet air of this hour.

.

A Simple Thing

.

I wake to wander
moonlit rooms.

The day haunts me
this night.

Outside, a great wing of cloud
spreads across the sky.

Image of flight…
but from what?

Shadows tangle
on the floor,

but my dear one’s face is clear,
she is curled in sleep.

I sit and think of all the times
I will have to love her.

In the Museum

.

Among still lives of fruit, broken
bread, glass doves and gold goblets,
hung a painting of a decrepit man.
He grasped at his cloak
to pull it more tightly around himself
against the opaque background.
His red-lidded eyes gazed out,
his warped mouth gaped.
There was no caption to tell
who did it, what it’s about.

A woman entered the room
pushing a stroller full of wailing.
She sat at the bench
in the center of the room,
tucked the infant under her shirt
and breast-fed discreetly.
She spoke sweetly to it; she smiled
and closed her eyes.
I looked at the painting,
his look of listening.

.

Intimations

.

A dead-end street.
Ragged yellow afternoon light,
the rain just ended.
Power lines gleam the hidden length.
The windows of the frame houses
flash shards of sky.

A boy walks down the sidewalk.
Even from this distance
I can hear his steps.
Every so often
he kicks a stone,
looks at his face in a puddle.

A dead-end street
spanning before him.

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