Several summers ago I was empty as a room.
I opened windows
looking for something devout in the sky.
Collecting peaches in the garden
I imagined the sun making a halo of my hair.
My attempt at daylight saving has been
a desperate grasp of before and after,
of cause and consequence,
a desperate need to hold onto duality.
What is letting go
but an exercise in bewilderment?
If I’m honest, I don’t know
when I changed into my current form.
Tonight I traced the migration of blackbirds
with my finger—
the lessening light of evening went down
in its ordinary pose.
Buoyed by hope
I said a prayer that was less a cry
against the end
and more an acceptance of the ineffable.
Ode to a Young Girl at the Window
A late evening in March,
of my daughter’s twelfth year
and the somber sky
gives a performance
for the house on the hill—
the moon hands sorrow
to yellow stars
and a melody of snow
plays its last mellow notes,
like an old mother’s slender
like an old mother’s last sight
of the young girl
at a window
with white daffodils.