Cupboard Weather: 9: Storm

so wet ducks could swim in the street
clouds as low as swimming holes
you do not need an umbrella
or a plastic hat like a gutter
you need the courage to jump
into a puddle
or
into her arms

Sculpting

In the throat 
In the eye
Under the tongue
With the blink

From the air
In the weather
under the tongue

What the week said

Cupboard of String

We leave you behind again
like weather we could once predict

Now we wear an empty pantry 
messages sent across invisible wires

Parenthood the mantle never shed
paper cups and miles and miles of string

Cupboard Weather: 8 weeks: Silks

I want to wear a t-shirt
like a calla lily
thick white silk
loose on my skin
and gentle as the false Spring
before the rains come

Modalities

Between the spokes
the watery air
wind sentinels
promise 

modern sail
a dance of intermittent
syncopation

Merry go round

Sixth Week; Wings

one petal
one feather
each pressed against next
curves catch each breeze
to fly over the bay

In Search of

Through windows of bright wet
snow. With headphones, the skin tense 
to what the eyes sense when closed.
Until we see what the neighbor sees:
cupboard of weather, early bloom of
distance closing between us.

Week 5:

light rain
polishes the red branched
Japanese maple
the sap pushes through capillaries as the hidden leaves
uncurl beneath the bark
and I rush into the warm house
afraid that the water will release
the sweet syrup beneath my skin

Dinner Cupboard: Pilgrims Digging

Up from the dirty earth, our smoky kinship

Again with pasta for dinner and potatoes with skin

peeled back to expose      small white bites

husky taste that lingers    

                 

when every drop of rust is squeezed

from off white (tea bags)                

pulled from men (and women)

brick beneath our nails from scaling.