a little frog
sits on a warm rock
busy relaxing

a stalactite gleams
black water drips
the only sound

a white-powdered landscape
sunbeams illuminate
nothing

a November breeze
one palo verde blooms
anyway

moonlight
cool air on my skin
the blanket's smell

Olden knowledge should smolder
As smoke rising from an ember -
Universal but not common -
Peculiar but not forgotten.
Tell me of those days of yore -
Of circumstances transpired -
So I can repeat on my lips
That which slumbers in silence.

He comes around the wall
  And I feel my quickened heart.
I dare to look even while
  Seconds become a moment.

He passes with dull eyes
  And a whiff of musky skin.
I wish I could pass by
  As unaffected as him.

One Christmas, death showed up
To rip the bonds apart
And they, who were stunned -
Said their good-byes
Hastily at the tomb.

That same Christmas -
Another family opened their arms
To a transfigured man
Who wiped his eyes
And ushered him home.

I saw a woman emerge from a shadow
  With a sly demeanor and look about.
Her sequined dress was aglow.
  She didn't know I was also out.

I watched her remove a silver shoe
  And stick her foot into the mere –
One of the darkest ferrous blue –
  As if testing the temperature.

Her dress was even more brilliant -
  After a countenance of approval -
When she crossed the bleak horizon -
  Careful not to soak her lunar veil.

eight doves on a wire
together
friends on bar stools