Precious Things

Clustered leaves form a nest for the cloud
as I lie below, the tree’s outstretched arms
strengthened and still, waiting for the sky’s crown
to up and flit away, and I sit upon the tree’s feet
like a second weight, fragile as a burden,
heavy as royalty.


Room 307’s First December Dusk

Scrapes and scuttles above my bed
but beneath the record player crooning
carols for the sliders and shufflers
to grate and whoosh to-

Do tree and garland rise in the upstairs room?
Or does the furniture scoot to perfect
And that, for feet to twirl and sway-
for the first or hundredth time?

With arms open as wide as the heartsRead More »