Fabric

Glimmer-threaded,
green-feathered
grandfather hemlock,
dewfingers drip
a thousand trembling orbs,
each a gold-green crystal inverse,
an inverted snow-globe shrine,
star-hearted foci of silence.

Summer Day Ditty

Slimshanks leaped,
fastfolded knee-to-chin,
elbows locked in and
crater-crack splash,
saltsilver shards of green glass bay
cold speckle my legs,
slow-surfing the bobbing dock
and laughing.
Seal-pup sleek, up pops
my love.

moment

rose in cut glass craves earth,
but stiffened with her moment,
she iridesces, velvet and moist,
welcoming the penetrating gaze
until she is permitted to drop
petals by threes and fours,
weep sap, and melt clumsily
into the warm, loving ground.

limerick

Chloe, Chlo-A, Chloetta
likes her mother bettah;
her father's no grinch,
but in a pinch,
her mother can knit her a sweatah.

Riddled

It's the earth's back yard.
It's a bug light for meteors.
It's the blushing cheek of God against the breast of Mother Earth.
It's a soul vault.
It's the mind that conceives sunrise and sunset as a full circle.
It's the air mountains breathe.
It's the abyss over which we hang by our feet.
It's the reflection of a puddle.
It's a big, blue cross hanging over a downtown intersection.
It's the fabric you can puncture, but never rend.
It's straight-pinned to railroad tracks
and tattooed to oceans.
It can't come in.
It threads itself endlessly through my squinted eye.

Shoes for Bush

I wish I had a readership of millions just for this post. I had the notion to send President Bush a pair of shoes as a token of thanks for what he has done to my country over the past eight years, in solidarity with the Iraqi journalist Munthadar Al-Zaidi. For those who do read this, and would like to participate in this statement of disrespect, Iraqi-style, here is his address: 1600 Pennsylvania Ave NW, Washington, DC 20500.

Our 96 year old house after the first day of snow. We got about 6 more inches after that, and are due for more over the next 24 hours.