1 I have never been a farmer, or farmer’s wife, sweating fruit lost to hard frost, and livelihood, or praying for rain. I have never wa...

- - Frank O'Hara's perspective is profoundly urban, and I love his leaps and dives. The poem I read before my foray in the garden ...

- - This poem is an attempt at plagiarism. I come from poetry lessons with Robert Kelly and Diane Wakoski who taught that copying the poems...

- - Dancing at dawn I sit alone, like a pocketed wheel snail snugged in sandy dawn, the sun angling for salmon behind the barn’s thistl...

- - Resurrection pulses through me like a river pushing aside moments of death. My foot steps ahead toward the Russian olive, solitary, ...

- - The Soul’s Correspondence Freely, the black locusts bend and wave from limbs and fingers, waterfall spray across their stone slab ...

- - Sap at night Before budding begins, the last pure stream of the maple drops into the bucket-moon sweet and uncluttered Postscript...

- - What is it you feel on a walk in the woods when you know that suddenly you must stop, because the energy within you and surrounding you...

- - little tree for my newborn grandson, James (I cannot speak this directly to him. It must be in the second person. What would happen...

 - - free In the mist around the rising sun a bird also rises. The wood fire clicks in the iron box. Are the bird, the sun, and the fire...

- - Red Pines Every day I drive to work and it is the same thing. Listen to two minutes of political news or economic disaster. Turn it...

- - Solitary tree Do you feel yourself standing on the platform of the earth served up as if for my pleasure alone? Alone, yet not lo...

- - What and where I was a few nights ago I wasn't a star. Not a rain cloud. Or a rose. I was not the barn, or a bird flying out i...

- - A year in an apple Crunch into the sweet flesh, and winter snow crumbles under a black branch where the juncko lands. With the s...

- - At the orchard It is a late Saturday afternoon in early October, and I am headed nowhere, certainly not the cider-and-doughnut orch...

- - Through the window this morning, flickering behind poplar leaves, the sun rose. Was it S.O.S. he coded? I was on the phone, but I want...

- I painted and designed clothes for fun when I was young. I should have done more with it. Maybe it’s not too late. One way I get my fill ...

- - Wild Wild, the sky says “dance” and the clouds obey. My hands are birds, posing in the trees, accompanying.   - -

- - Nights start to cool, tomatoes like the world grow heavy. A mid-size calf looks at you and splays to his mother. She lows protectively,...

- - Little stints Under white cloud mountains as stiff as meringue the shore pulled away, me in a daze of life. The windowed, curving m...