There is the inferred,


the lol

and the❤.


I linger there,

believing there is more:

more heart,

more depth,

more intrique.


I picture a place,

the characters,

the conflict to be resolved,

and that’s where

I most want to stay.


In plots, 

in points well taken,

in words that convey it perfectly:





Borne up and out,

of texts 

and emails,

sent through the air.


How do the words stay intact?


And there,

in what’s not said,

in what might have been said,

if you called,

if I did:






This Fish

Plucked right out of the sky,

a fish of largeness,

a bass,

and me,

not expecting this big.


All day,

I thanked the bass,

as it lay on ice,

in keeping.


Then me,

steaming and eating the fish,

imagining its life in this lake, 

its body,

sleek scales in glinting flight,

water flight,


like outer space.


And me,

pulling it

right out of its sky.


With every bite,

this fish,




A Few More Days

This is their world: seagull in heightened flight, heron low skimming, geese flocked up close among lilies, loons in tremolo warning, snakes curled long absorbing heat.   Among them now, barefoot and listening to Beethoven, first thing Sunday morning, and suddenly, all I want, is to be part of their world.   Music off, breeze picking up, the lake is stirring now.   There it is: their world, and me, thinking, and trying too hard, to find a way in.   In a few days.   In a few days, limbs and breath, in tranquil stretching, loose and deep, will be floating effortlessly, in our world. IMG_8636

Low Tide Gift


And there they were,

tucked low and close,

among the sea stones. 


In search of mussels,

I found a star fish,

suddenly thrust into

a direct hit of sun.


A moment to make sense of this,

and then: 

more of them,

large ones, 




star fish.


Low tide,

just minutes spent out of water,

I watched as the ocean returned

down into the crevices.


I went down, too,

and stayed,

lost in the reverie of tides,

as the water settled in around their arms,


displaying minute filaments,

white as pearl,

slowly reaching for,



and each other.


And there I was,


not in a net, 

but in awe,

as each one vanished,

beneath the waves.



The Story, Rewritten

Out beyond the sunken shallows,

a saltwater bay,

almost still,

save for one loon.


This loon,


and I sink down,

interpretation low and sad.


I imagine it lost,


its mate long gone:

that storm,

those lights,

that boat.


But if I bend it back,

change the story

I can see it content,

after a morning bath,

she’s clean and alert,

a webbed foot thrust out behind,

as it floats,

giving in to the currents,

it knows deep

in the silence of its bones.


A small boat approaches from the north,

and then I hear it:

a quick trilling tremolo of warning.


There’s another loon,

beyond the buoys,

swimming in.


I am hushed,

and humbly whisper,

“I’m sorry.”


I leave them to what they know:


inside and out,

fresh and salty.


Alone and together.


The story,





This Dog

This dog,

as still as a frozen dessert,

a screen door the only obstacle

between her

and that chipmunk,

squawking in a rhythmic riot.


She has caught two,

both dead within seconds,

perhaps longer in chipmunk time.



the chipmunks get away,

the ornamental border plants

at full density now.


After the chase,

with nothing to show,

she trots back to her blind,

appearing nonplussed,

maybe even content,

to have tried and not succeeded.


But she has the memory of a chipmunk,

held tight in her jaws:

it happened

and in each attempt,

the memory rides high and brilliant,

at the border line.


Among Them

What I would have said to you,

is how magnificent,

your mind,

your heart,

the way you see,

the way you feel life,

laughter like raining crystals,

the way you narrow it down,

to an essence.


Your eyes,

keen and bright,

seeking nothing more,

than the purest of light,


leading to love.


Nothing wasted,

there wasn’t time,

never enough,

and when you died,

forty years ago today,

my heart grabbed hold

of what was left of you,

and now,

awake early again,

in the deep morning tide of bird song,

I stop to listen,

and imagine,

your voice among them.



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