Long ago on a stormy day

a ribbon arced high

across the clouds—

Heedless we whirl over ground so green …

They must have been walking to work, her neck caught in the crook of his elbow …

Every footprint casts a shadow …

Barely awake from its long hibernation, packed tight: with an ounce of Clyde …

It was a blustery day and I found this poem on the beach.

You gathered the soil of the Southern Alps on treks through every version of moisture falling.

Ice sheathes the earth. A crystal illusion, held by surface tension …

First dry leaves rattle against my window. Then air howls and a low thumping begins.

Reluctant Stones pried from the earth, moistened by the sweat of artisans …

Don’t give your heart or bed to a tulip.

You go away and the clock ticks louder and slower.

She came from a northern place—a place with shade …

When’s the last time you drifted along lost in the haze of a celadon glow …

Before the rain fell the forest sighed a long exhale.

Swirling along in the ever-blue sea she nurses her calf …

Little leaf shines in an ocean of sky …

Cracking through Jen’s crème brûlée reminds her of children, small and quick …

Never fear, the spider waits.

One morning you are walking down a dusty little path in the pine forest of Wyoming.