French Omelet
When my parents came to France to visit
they got on the wrong train. We lived
in the middle of nowhere, too small
for their map.
The Year of Disappearing Tents
They swept up baby pictures like
they swept up obituaries. They swept up
ashes of a husband, & told no one
where to find him.
So Much Space for Song
What made the winter wren say,
this is my home now, as it carried
stick after stick and tufts of grass
to the tractor, shaping a soft place
inside the arm that lifts the bucket?
Voyager
America mourns the loss of President Jimmy Carter and celebrates one hell of a life lived. I’ve been reading his poetry this week and came upon this quote: “being president is as difficult as writing the perfect poem.” If only all leaders were poets.
The Way a Psalm Can Begin
I’ll never figure out my part
in praying. How to even start.
Like the silent heron that lands
mid-scroll in the year’s low pond, I stand
waiting. Who said there were fish here?