crisp mornings
with just a hint of cold
frost lies on the creek bank

sniff the air
rain smell old
leaves and mold
eat and eat until
enough is stored

look for a den
shut down
only a dream fragment
for company

all cozy and warm
winter dreams
pastures mosaic
summer and spring

hibernate
body shutdown
today and tomorrow
all yesterdays tipped
in a few feet of snow
only in slumber more
kaleidoscope dreams

outside the cold white
world of winter while
inside slow down
and sleep under
moss soft
days and nights

only once woke up
to write down these
words

They say Americans
cannot write poetry
because they spend
all their words in
contemplation of their
navels.

This morning I did
just that:
A round little cavern with its
folds and its secrets.

They told my Mother
I was born with a
tiny hole in my navel,
to take extra care
because of the minute
leakage.

I guess that hole
took care of itself.

when she blows soft on that sax
with the whole room rock’ in forth and back
cat oh cat playin that sax

then Christen comes in
with her little paw sins
and makes that piano red hot

come on down to this jazz
blues barn pack them in—
then rock north then rock south
rock them until the sun comes back.

One afternoon at Cranbrook Gardens snapdragons
surround pines and lead to an iron bridge over
the road where angels bear the world in a fountain
shedding tears of lost hope. Seeds hold an séance under
a wilted wild spring garden. The sunken garden is a refuge
of gardeners and bees as they blaze a trail of honey before
our very eyes—one afternoon at Cranbrook.

As moths to the flames, we’re drawn to mirrors, say the ages of ancient actors on television as part of a ritual. Everything and nothing, all of a sudden we’re the older generation. Questions rise and fall in uneven breaths. Should we cradle death’s head under our breasts? How do we prepare for eternity? What is retirement? The older we get the more we listen and the less we’re heard. We tell fashion to take a hike when putting one leg in at a time (like everybody else) becomes a chore. We become more powerful when we crave less power. All of a sudden we’re the older generation. Questions rise and fall in uneven breaths.

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