With apologies to Willian Blake
 
Little lamb, who made you?
Do you know who made you?
Broiled you to a golden turn,
Watched you so you didn’t burn?
Cooked your middle nice and pink,
Poured a good Shiraz to drink?
Raised a glass to mourn your loss
And served you with a nice mint sauce?
Lambie, I’m afraid you
Will hate me, cause I made you!
                        

Out in the rain, warm for this time 
of year, and just a little wind 
to blow the droplets in my face. 
 
Last year, snow piled up almost 
to the deck, and by the red maple, 
a pyramid of ice. 
 
All night we heard the sounds 
of strange songs, lyrics like laughter, 
like bubbles in a glass of wine. 
 
We rolled away from the walls, 
hugged, if not in terror, at least 
in terrible anxiety. 
 
Sometimes I rose, looked out 
at the deserted street bathed 
in lamplight. When we drifted 
 
off to sleep, we joined each other 
In a dream of ships and ocean foam. 
Where did we travel  each night? 
 
What countries did we visit, 
which exotic shores? 
Or were those islands left off all 
 
the maps, or were we in the realm of clouds? 
I never knew, and at breakfast, 
over coffee and croissants, we worked 
 
these problems endlessly, until it was time 
for you to study Latin and me to walk 
to music, returning myself to a more human state.
                        

How strange to wake in a new season, 
as if trees had changed places 
with their living ghosts, 
as if the pond had opened 
like a sleepy eye. 
 
Last time we were here, 
stars were splinters in a frozen sky, 
air so cold our breath hung 
against glass like frost. 
 
No wonder we slipped off to sleep, 
our heart rates slowed and blood 
thick in our veins. 
 
And now you’ve wrapped me 
in your arms, and when I cough, 
you move away, 
worried that you’ve choked off my air. 
 
But it’s only the rough end of sleep.
I pull you back, and we lie for awhile, 
letting the world emerge slowly from the shell of night.