Corridor: #2

Good day I believe
it is established 
that you are fully 
mine: fajita cart
& shoppers resting 
corridor to fresh
taste of courtyard 
winter pulling back 
along the walls
promenade to red
and gold street art
profiles of people
on sturdy wooden
doors to french pastry 
& window moccasins
historic postcards
greet me   their 
invisible paint-
brush bearers 
pillar umbrellas 
that will not display
today for the day
is aligned for wander
no icy puddles save for
splash of light on
vendor's folding
tables of silk screen
blues and turquoise
green bangles 

The Rose Umbrella: Looking to the Sky #1

for Homer Akers

The mourning doves have come, my small
oval saints, touchstones that some say
pester with abundant presence 
in their front yard winter trees. 

But as I drive by I nod to them, momentarily 
knowledgeable of the names of things which 
gives me fleeting confidence in simple ritual, 
in sightings. Furry down with wings.

The Rose Umbrella: Week 1: Disciple

the carefully made bed

a black wool blanket over down and feathers

each pillow fluffed and placed at angles

the walls I think are white

yes white and the blanket black

there is grey too and silver

books and bits of jewelry

at night I create a nest of feathers and wool 

sink in and stretch out

no order except comfort

but when the morning comes

I make the bed

lovingly

repeating

my discipline

my spirituality

my imperfection

Evening

pink and apricot

against the palest blue

trees soften along branch edges

Spring lies hidden in Winter's embrace

I see her shy smile as I drive by

So Far

the little bit 

the slice

of concrete 

the pile of bricks

a sign telling you the way to

a place you will never visit

a place you pray to God you will never visit

I was talking about concrete

about building materials

piles of geometry

that catch the

aperture

unaware 

If Saturday: Considering a New Name

If Saturday were sky and the cupboards all were emptied, 
we would have each other, silent save for these tassel 
missals sent like homing arrows, like patient pick up sticks.

If silence were an animal it would surely have long hair 
and you and I would bend to pet her or him, passing 
through the quiet crowd, the color of the air 

outside. The sky is my sister and I dare her to take these 
well-guided arrows, these prayers that no one's best friend 
pass away this year or that we might love our daughters

without pause, that these walking sticks standing upright, 
red and natural earthen brown, will stake a place where 
we will dance a rainless dance and anticipate 

the future new year weather stacked in this, our shared cupboard, 
that we will flag a new name like fortunes tucked in cookies 
a restlessness folded under, pinned like a hem

A Saturday Pup