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