Cupboard Weather: Last Steps: Going Home

steps along the roadway
cars zoom fast
ignore me and my iPod
it's set on random
like my walk
I think it's eight miles
though it's actually less than three
days are longer
my eyes don't register those few minutes
but my heart does
I'm random like cars and music
and happy to be striding
purposefully into the silent evening

Cupboard Weather: 52 Weeks: Advent

I'm finished with expectation
the weary slog of cooking
of buying and paying
done with pretense
coercion smiles
I'm tired just the getting up
or lying down has become
too much
the blanket
like a shroud pressed on my shoulders
I don't mind
the weight of yesterday
cold a frozen slush of memory
regret crushing boredom
I wait for the perhaps in the morning

Desk, Virginia's

                                  

I imagine the desk a little lopsided, shimmed with love letters.

The sun from a far corner blanching the wood yellow.  

I picture her standing, leaning in at the desk 

binding the pamphlets by hand.

Bites in the darker wood where her hips pressed. 

Rings like bruises where bottles of thin ink rested. 

There’s a faint scribble in the middle,

sunken swatch

where wrist and elbow worked.

I imagine her sharp pen catching in the grooves.

In the next room, ghost sounds,

lead type dropping into wooden boxes 

Her husband standing at the hand press. 

Her fingernails bitten as she coins       

phrases    jump the fence    sticks and stones

Fingers sawing away at perfection. To get to 

the brain bone.   Nowhere for the novelist to pause,

whittling away at the wood of the night.

  after a photograph by Annie Leibovitz

Cupboard Weather: Cold Rain

the bricks grow moss

coats like lambs wool

or clover

cold rain brings false Spring

floods mudslides traffic tied in knots 

steamed windows and milk

waiting for the coastal hills to turn

lush fertile as they burst into Winter

Point in Front of Me Like a Brick

Cupped prayer around 
the cup against the cold 
that we imagine
will be here tomorrow or
the next day on this dry
pane of today's uprising
steam. 

While elsewhere is 
the burning disbelief 
I recognize
the once still mothers 
breaking windows, their
visages stare back
at me from the things
drowning inside the cup. 

from Letter to an Unknown Sister: How the Cupboard Squeaks

Dear Visitor of Ivy turning,
brown as winter knocks. Come in, 
inevitable weather. Wilt of wave 
wrapped around a chair with 
staying power. You once shared 
Springtime with me. I thought you 
poisonous at first but others 
reviewed the tips of your tendrils 
green and whispered otherwise. 

Cupboard Weather: Spring

if Winter comes

then rain

if rain comes

then earth

If rain and earth come 

then grass turns hills

if rain and earth and grass

if Winter and hills

if they as in a plural or a group

they as a family or intention

they as a moment when

night is at its darkest

then Spring

Cupboard Weather: After The Feast

quietly the afternoon

devoid of guests and abundance 

the sound of cash registers

and insults intended or not 

opens to allow fragrant coffee

dark and bitter as the best chocolate

to warm us 

prepare to wake us to the sound of crystals  breaking

and begin thee day in

the quiet afternoon

Excerpt: A Pinch of Cupboard View

A Birder Builds a Nest on Paper

You scratch at twine that turns to sequins 
Rough bark splinters
silver flecks on paper etched  Your eyes
move down into the honing
sound    shadows against a path
Neighborhood revealed in winter windows
cars and roofs    edges
Blue black wings clear a patch   pass the blind
sightings might be hummingbird, might be sparrow
instead they shape shift into diction
crown   and   foothold   necktie    breach
The flight's the flood    words that flit 
you rearrange the rivulet of caw caw sounds

Cupboard Weather: Two Days of Rain

the slight rain pushes the rose

out of the bud

dust washed away

earth moist and welcoming 

the delicate spotted dove bathes

in a pothole at the edge of the street

we wait for Winter

while we live in Spring

Waiting For New

here is the old bridge

here the new

November's light soft and round as a pearl 

matches my memory of you 

farewell

adieu

Poetry Sanctuary: Cupboard Readied

Chairs readied for those winter friends who will 

come to hear the show. Crosses on the back wall 

will bless every entrance, every cough, and every sigh. 

You and I will witness shift and stare, water cups suspended,

and raise our hands in poetic benediction 

in no position to pretend we are anything but priest 

and priestess of the wind. Waiting to see what next will blow in.

Cupboard Weather: 46 Weeks: Water

slight rain 

yesterday's dark morning  

reflected in the white earthenware 

birdbath welcome and insufficient

it's not the downfall

but  the snowpack 

miles away and years ago

Taking on New Possibility

It's Saturday and it's stunning out.
I scoot through the alley, circle around
again, then idle at the neck of this tributary. 
It's not raining anywhere, I think. And the light 
from window to window on my left has me 
imagining a cafe that could be easily relocated 
to your block, on your walk. These windows 
such as you see, and their patrons. But this 
corner eatery isn't open yet. Its absent guests 
from the night before are home making coffee 
in their kitchens in their slippers or as their 
children jump noisily on their crumpling beds.
It's morning, after all, and I am headed elsewhere 
to handle recycled, hand-made books and sift 
through artists' discards taking on new possibility. 
But the light is beige and the sky is blue. 
And I am thinking how fond I am of trading
places like this with you.

Cupboard Weather: 45 Weeks: Red

this is a red season

a time for fires in the small Kiva

fireplace to huddle then unwind 

yarn to knit up cares and sweaters

to wear whether 

weather needs it or not

a time for deeper sunsets

painfully blue skies

yellow heart-shaped leaves

gradually turning into adobe

and nights where the heat of

You in my bed makes breathe

faster as we turn

towed each other in the dark

Cupboard Weather: 44 Weeks: Rainy Days

the rain came

soaking the parade

which would not be called

because the season is over

and "we" won

the rain came

making the sidewalk 

glow as the dust washes off

and the red leaves beckon

mysterious

the rain came

it's still too early

for the weather head

to tell as that we should 

look forward to sun

the rain came

stoking the need for hot

tea and a new book

a secret cupboard

to hide my heart in

Reconstruction

The rebuilding can last forever
First flood, then mold, then
someone steals your bicycle
from the trusting rack on the back
of your car. Cars park nose to trunk
and your photo of a man staring but
not at you appears to hold a woven
basket on his shoulder. We balance
Halloween weather and imagine
we are rock stars, younger than we
feel this windy morning with grey
hair blown every which way as we
hammer and snooze.

Tanka

sometimes the photo

crisp sharp as the cloud above

your bike or faded

lthe late Fifties were not as

good as we  remembered

Apricot Jam

Haiga

wings spread edges

buildings beautify corners

crisp bite of sky

Haiga

building sharp edges

light against dark against light

afternoon detail

Early Peony

Flowers

flow

hours

softly

like

petals

Cupboard Weather: 43 Weeks: Later

Autumun

golden

light

leaf

night 

falling

Crisp

apple

pear

squash

pumpkin

eating

Soft

wool

feather

leather

sweater

wearing

Quiet

list

journal

novel

poem

heart

reading