Summer Moment


A gibbous moon landed
on the crowns of the locusts.

Shrubs and trees quivered with song.  
Thoughts, those sweaty

old dogs,
lay down.  

Twilight, murmurous and warm, 
swept into the space it was meant for.  





Praise Your Life


When on a June morning heavy with rain,
you can taste the best cappucino
since Rome, in a cafe
with scarred maplewood tables,
a book of Caravaggio splayed open:
The Calling of St. Mathew
that could be set in a tavern,
a gambling den, a dank office where
tax collectors are counting their day¹s work,
while in the top right of the frame, a gold-
seared light slices in, and with it,
the figure of a god-made man— 
a bolt of radiance shoots through
his finger, pointed as if to say:  You,
it is you, I have called to this life.  





​The Doe That Appeared on the University Athletic Fields


she leapt
into view   rose
five feet or higher    turning

in the thick summer air    
 
she called the echoes from the grass

stopped the athletes in their games— 

she pushed me off my treadmill mind

I was down on the grass
collecting awe in her wake





Living by Water


Give me the nearness of water— 
boats cleaving wind-brushed 
gem-green, molten grey and sails
birthing full colors to air— 

the way a child might wish
for the sight of her mother
through an open door,
arc of her mother's hands
turning the pages of her book,
stirring the broth on the stove;
the ruffling of her skirts
as she moves, her hair
accepting whatever light
passes through the window.




​
Sun Lover

​
Face upturned, arms and legs 
splayed out in tall grass,
I could be a plant taking light,
making it food,

warmth seeping through skin,
flesh on the verge 
of some joyful, chemical
transformation.

I think of the faithful
who open their mouths for the wafer
dissolving,  converting
to something like god in their bodies.