
the swallows fly toward our heads—
i do not flinch


the swallows fly toward our heads—
i do not flinch


sunflowers and summer blooms
hand stitched tea towels
8 track tapes
cartons of blueberries
two babies riding in a red wagon
ladies in big straw hats
western paperbacks
blocks of soap
a collection of small, carved elephants
baskets of peaches
twirling ballerinas in pink boxes
a row of parked Harley Davidsons
wedding photos from 1935

an empty vessel
ready to be filled,
to be curated, exhibited–
to hold and protect,
to be a respectable receptacle
for that which can sprout
and grow
and bloom
and slowly fade away

when the days of summer
rest in our souls,
they are light
and bright
and full of lace
and shimmering grace

her ripped hem
teethmarks on a pencil
cracks in an old tea pot
a bruised cherry
his crooked glasses
markings on a shell
patched suitcases
a wedding photo and
two missing buttons

what she most desired
was desire

sitting beside the Youghiogheny River,
i listened to the sound of its waters,
watched a wolf spider,
and caught a glimpse of a dipping hawk–
what did the Algonguin
tribes see when they came here?
what did they feel when they looked into
the sky and over the mountains?
what did they know when they sat on the
rocks and scanned the horizon for sunning snakes?
we think we might know, but really,
we will never know

your simple lines and curls are the
very definition of perfection

the ducks bob and float in the river waters,
ignoring the barking dogs and the crying children,
treading the choppy waves left behind by a speeding boat–
living directly from moment to moment


“it was the chipped sugar bowl that was
always on the table growing up”
“it’s not my fault, i’m just the nanny”
“she missed you so much”
“so i got up to chase the rabbit…”
“they’re clearing this field to build two
new appartment buildings on it”
“you’re pretty”
“today’s ice cream flavor is coffee with chocolate chunks”