The Water is Gone

The water is gone.
I tried to pool some into a cup, but
it is not there to be cupped.

I walk the forest
with last year’s stream in my mind
but the creek bed is dry.

Now I am upstream
and each turn is a lesson as to how
all sounds are echoes

coming through the hills
from somewhere further afield.
I think of walking on

although today
the further into woods I might walk
the further it seems to be.



A semi-legitimate concern upon
taking up the hobby of birding

is that I have waited too long
and as a result lack ample time

to learn who is who among birds
(there are many categories and

this alone is plenty to remember).
But, what does time have to do

with how we measure what it
might be worth to love something?



What do I do
with an empty wind
when the air hangs still
and the birds have flown on
goodbyes are made hours earlier
and the clinging leaves of summer
aren’t what they were when summer began

and now the leaves no longer try to stay
the darkwater lake laps up cold, quiet
and when the air picks up again
it is no longer a warm breeze
but tattered and flailing
a chill blowing
through us


Young Tomatoes

The sun had not crested the wall
I was sure you were sleeping
when I lifted the covers and
stepped out into the yard

In a world both quiet and warring
the air can feel tight, no? But
then I see what I’ve created
together with our Mother

I speak to them; we touch. With the
scent of tomatoes on my hands
how can I not feel at home
despite what today brings

(March 31, 2020)