Bead by Bead
At the end of it
my mother grew light.
Seemed hollow the way
bird bones are hollow.
Mom could sit forever
at the breakfast table to finger
her silver rosary strung with blue
glass beads that had small pocks
As some flower seeds are almost
perfect spheres but fall short
have pocks, flaws. Mom said
her quiet Hail Mary’s decade after decade
Until she’d finally doze off somewhere between
“The fruit of thy womb” and “the hour of our death.”
Between Late June and Geese
The ground is our enduring hope. First came
months of a relentless scorching that lasted
beyond any reckoning we have ever known.
The earth grew angry, strangled many things.
Then came a time when geese arrived back
in our skies and on the shyly lapping
shores of our lakes. In black night geese’s blasts
shake stars. Between those two times, earth’s orbit
Tilted us away from the sun. The fibers of satsuma
spiders in vibrating webs, dew as it drenches fields
even sheets of paper on desks feel this
the removal of sun’s intensity. Feel
That decrease lift in every cell. Such loss is gain
Held in quiet and in speech upon our tongues.
Anytime, Anywhere
Inside a single diamond of rain
heaven might rest.
You can be doing anything
sliding towels into a cabinet
Turning the page on
an afternoon nap
and tell in your bones
the exact second
When rain, any rain
starts, when it stops.
Aren’t deer, raccoons
and trees like that also.
Absolutely
Married to air.