Her Writing

I crouch here gazing up a hill
Coveting your rich red house

Cheese grater, chunks of romano,
pasta pan massaged to gleaming,
return to pantry shelf.

I gazed outside at the rise and hulk of trees on the horizon,
and envisioned other children there, playing “giant steps” in the shade.

I clawed my way to a high berth, stared at the blanched
sky darkening. I drowned in unquiet sleep, was startled
by a pitch from something in the black forest that smacked the window.

Shorebirds are clearing out. Pale plovers no longer camouflage eggs in the sand.

A sorority of snowdrops dots the garden,
broccoli buds with crimply leaves emerge.

The he-dove scampers on pink legs around and around her, drags his wings along the ground like a matador his cape sings low, almost guttural: “Coo-ah-cooo-cooo-coo.

The cat waits at the window
for your thin figure striding up the walk

Lost in the blizzard I clutched our baby boy
curled in his bunting, older boy locked onto your
hand, your voice boomed like a searchlight
through my blindness.

He’s telling me a story in the dark
language and I listen lest I lose the thread.

For months of morning darkness he heard
his goats call “Ah! ah!” for the milking pan,
while he stoked the coal fire, melted the silver,
cooled and hammered, heated and hammered,
old hand holding to the work without smashing a finger.

Sun in the valley lounged on our faces. A steep but short up to climb, light boots, light gloves.

He uncovers the mole behind her ear.
She loves the scary blue one on his inner thigh.

Do I dare to rouse you from the rumpled sheets, to come and see the peony, under the thunder moon?

You'd bully on leggings and galoshes. I'd kick and yank them off.

I’m drawn to you in black and white. The way you don’t lean, your cane a companion.

The sun sticks to my smile.
Humans on benches open their coats.
Dobermans and dachshunds
wiggle at each other.

You were my host in a tuxedo.
I was your guest of honor in chiffon.

Let me rest by these waters stirred to turquoise.

The mustang itches for moisture. His nostrils search for a whiff of thunder cloud.

Lord, can you hear this old body implore you? I cathect the blood in the grooves of your hands.

Over tequilas a stranger confided about another, dearer path to see The Canyon.

A family of crows assembles in the deep snow.