By |

Before the birth, it was all angels and light,
but when it came time for the birth,
the wings and accompanying brightness
vanished like butterflies before frost.
I could have used a midwife
or a woman to wash the baby
or at least cook me a bowl of soup.
So when I heard the knock, I rallied.

When Joseph answered the knock,
he saw them standing there,
not all meek and mild
but roughhousing among themselves,
shoving each other for the best view
between the cracks in the wood frame.

They were snotty-nosed, unkempt little beggar boys,
sent away from home to watch sheep
until they grew up and were fit to be trained
in one trade or another.
Joseph could have turned them out.
Just one “Scat” would have sent those boys
scurrying back to their sheepfold.

But even though we had little ourselves,
we knew those boys had less.
If they wanted to share this evening with us,
we would share with them.
Our bread stretched a bit further,
the broth thinned until there was enough for all.

We took a risk letting them in the stable.
They could have stolen our few belongings,
or made a mockery of our poverty,
so little removed from theirs.
And when their unwashed hands cradled our son,
he could have caught cold, or worse.
And yet, something told us that—while there was risk
in letting the shepherd-boys into the stable
(and into our lives) that night—there was even more
risk in shutting them out.

By |

We left the mountains
as the snow began.
Driving south,
the golden cottonwoods
against variegated gray clouds
shone
vibrant as a freshly painted
oil canvas.
But somewhere in the Bisti,
the sky turned itself
inside out.
Storm clouds’ menacing pall
now rendered pale and opalescent
as mother-of-pearl.
In a treeless plain,
light edged clouds with gold foil,
standing in
for the dazzling cottonwoods.

By |

Harvesting fruits from my garden,
I think of Ceres and Persephone.

Why should the pomegranate
recall Hades and the underworld?

The pomegranate’s red
belongs to the earth we walk,
fragrant as the red blossoms

of Mexican hats in early summer,
or the red of poinsettias in December.

The fruit of the underworld
might be ginger—all root—
with nothing edible above ground.

Preparing curry, I rub off
the outer layer of ginger with a spoon.
The emerging ginger
root is pungent as the sun,
lively as a yellow cat about to pounce.

Husking garlic, I think
how garlic, too, is a fruit
of the underworld,
the round bulb white
as a bulbous moon,

the papery skin
pocked purple in places
like a cratered moon face.

So why a pomegranate?

I know a mailman
who fished during his lunch hour
and near a favorite fishing spot
found bright red garnets.

He brought the garnets to me
in little sandwich bags.

The jeweler said these fragments were too small to work with
so instead I wrote this poem.

By |

Tonight
lightning
sparkles through the skylight
like raised wineglasses
reflecting light:
lip to lip,
the clatter of wineglasses,
a sort of thunder.

By |

How fleeting the hours,
how abruptly the day
ends.
Watch the sunset,
suspended on a curved
canvas of blue,
haltingly
labor
a sliver of rose
through lowslung clouds.

Among bare branches
of a poplar,
two golden leaves flutter
above the unflinching snow,
at the blade tip
of a slender trunk:
here
a pair of wings.

By |

In the gymnasium of love,
there is no act one,
no drawing of the curtain,
no finale.
So, too, the earth
turns her cheek
continually
to absorb
light of the sun,
and then releases
her treasure of heat
seamlessly
all through the night.

By |

The red moon eclipsed
against the sky’s indigo
mirrors the pigments

of the icon of Mary,
waiting,
in the triptych.

Why is my neighbor—
now 85 years old—
leaning his splintered ladder

against his home’s sloped roof?
Watch him moon gazing
from his rooftop

now
like all the world
stunned into silence.

By |

Uprooting dried
sunflower stalks,
the dried branches
collapse and fall
from the stem,
like the spokes
of an umbrella,
collapsing.

Summer disengages
like an empire
retreating
before winter—
then retires,
like a love
that has run
its course.