Poetry

I can imagine her upon the path,  The can of blue paint dangling from her hand, Her cupped fingers holding

“And I encourage my students. I say:‘You know, you could go ice skating with Joan of Arc.’”-Billy Collins If you’ve

She said it was a shawl of many hues,Like Joseph’s coat, a gift to be bestowed.And, so, between her busy

Of rough materialitySuch stuff as we are made,Pulled up from stubborn ash,Rendered fully into flesh,Flesh unto flesh,Solid, steady, burning,Tearing through

Old, old breedErect, alert,uncompromising.Refusing any pretextat disguising.While all else fadesto green and brown,blends into dirty forest,she is clean, alone.The full

The man in the red fedora,Seated on the sidewalk,Legs stretched and ankles crossed,Leaning on his plastic bagsOf necessities and mysteries,His

From another room my mother said“I don’t know what gets into him.”My father’s short responsive shrugHad become so common that

And as the sun roseAnd earth and air and water warmed,The silt of gray fogDissolved into translucent haze. And then

I’m sure you have them, too,Those clips of memoryThat seem so random,That begin in the middleAnd stop without resolution,Without concluding

The buses full of tourists jammed the lot. They’d come to see the trees and be beguiled. A woman pulled