Tuesday, October 13, 2009


Some mornings it seems
as though the gods still
live inside these days
that we have given
their names.

Meticulous hands pluck
petals from old flowers
with the savage dexterity
of love-me love-me-
not convictions. It is raining
debris from the trees,
and molten sunshine
occasionally leaks
through the clouds.

We are annexed by the season
as veins of air splinter
the ice on the lake,
and our hands hang
like those of the freshly dead
over the edge
of the mattress.

The wind carries
dandelion seedlings
heavy with wishes.

1 comment:

Cynthia Short said...

Lovely prose - i especially like "spring".