small stone 1 – returning


i am so thankful
for your open door, although i insisted
getting in through the window.

i am sorry
it is broken; sorry
i fell through clumsily only to find you
waiting inside so porcelain
and calm; holding out to me
a warm cup of tea.

i am sorry i still believe
that a stubborn December
can wind us down, that i am not faithful
in the firm foundation that has held
up all these years.

oh, and i thank you
for the tea.

on my latest journey
i did not pick
anything out for you –
there was nothing
worth carrying home.

dead of winter – poem

dead of winter

the most january day
i have ever seen
stiffened over me in the grey
of afternoon, thick
as old mittens stitched
together, and i was nothing

but a slow pulse
beneath the floe
of an impenetrable heaven,
and every hope was a god
out icefishing, his lure
descending from a thin cylinder
of light, and the sky

grew cloudy
with the breath of old souls
who took the bait,
their grave faces pressed
against the icy underbelly
of the most january day
i have ever seen