Thursday, January 18, 2018

Canvas 1,139

Canvas 1,139

January 18, 2018

What is inside

This body with rain and snow on its rooftop,
and mossy eaves overhanging its eyes —

what is inside, but more rain and snow
and thought that abides

and subsides — what is inside,
but hermit cells in mountainsides,

and deeper wells where old stars meet
and new ones rise —

what is inside, but an old man’s laugh
and a little boy’s cries

for his mother — a cane, a stick,
a name, and flight,

and birth of even greater light?

(he said, and lit the candle bright)

Wednesday, January 17, 2018


On this day back in 2012, I wrote a little poem called “Snowflakes.” It goes like this:

Think of them, for a moment,
as fingertips of all the world’s dead,
seeking love in faces, hands,
and tongues.

Softly as their peace is borne,
we are among them.


Was it snowing that day? I don’t know. Probably not. But it might have been. In fact, I know it was.


Tuesday, January 16, 2018

Canvas 1,138

Canvas 1,138

January 16, 2018

water falls thunder mist us

water falls thunder mist us upon our return

some call them memories we call them ferns

climbing out of the canyon nothing

to want to gain to be to earn

kissed us taught us

blessed us

left us

wet clothes

damp wood to burn

Sunday, January 14, 2018

Canvas 1,136

Canvas 1,136

January 14, 2018

from a city rooftop two plums

from a city rooftop two plums pretending they are clouds

in bloom two clouds pretending they are plums

to skies pretending they are one

two eyes pretending too

be blue

Canvas 1,135

Canvas 1,135

January 14, 2018

Saturday, January 13, 2018