river

that it was sunny

meant only that

it was sunny and

we went for a walk

 

we went walking

along the river

among the trees

in the coolness

 

covered in shade

beside the river

we stood in silence

 

touching hands

standing silent

as the sun sets

 

the river sounds

like rubbing hands

 

trying to warm

waiting is the hardest part

what does it mean to be

doing poets’ work?

and how do you know

when the work is done?

 

are there fan clubs?

will there be letters

with dried flowers,

perfumes, gift cards?

 

assuming only those moved

will put in the effort

to reach out, how safe

are these communications?

 

i want to tell you each poem

is the result of you listening

to the voice beneath the voice

nestling in your ear.

 

go ahead and buy the book.

you can tear out all the poems

you love, and all the one you hate.

fold them up and put them in your pockets.

 

then forget you put them there.

let them surprise you some morning

making new shapes, unbidden,

binding us together with secrets.

 

become so full of words

they spill onto the floor

until you are emptied of words

and able to be still.

House hunting

We all have lists

for what we require

of a home. What

we name it.

The signs we hang

in the front hallway.

What do you need.

How many rooms,

and why.

About the view.

The neighbours.

But the question

is less important

than the answer.

Are we surprised

when we find it.

Do we think we can.

Have we forgotten

what it feels like.

Who was there.

There have been

moments.

sprinkled like salt.

We find homes

beyond the walls.

We let the dead

bury the dead.

Foxes have dens.

Birds have nests.

Where will we

lay our head.

We don’t need

the two-car garage.

The finished

basement.

The bonus room.

Not really.

We need every

warm voice.

A corner for rest.

A table for meals.

The blessing

of song and laughter.

What is possible.

Perhaps even a dream.

tell me

is there a better way

to spend time with friends

than around a fire

with a glass of good bourbon,

knitting hearts together

or sharing heartache

or listening to songs

that move the soul,

blanketing each other

in grace even in the midst

of fear, or anger,

or uncertainty –

 

what a precious thing

friendship is. and how

fragile. i tremble

at the thought of it,

the weight of words,

the weight of silence

while we find ways

to name our pain,

braving the safety

of this circle, embracing

this warm spring

evening under open sky,

filled with light,

even now.

attention

i thought it was quiet here
at first. sitting on the grass,
enjoying the slight breeze,
my body slowly warming 
in the sun. 
                   but there
is never really silence. 

i hear the pop of tennis ball
meeting racket, the rumble
of skateboard wheels 
on paved paths, the constant 
distant whirr of vehicles
driving on hidden roads.
there are low murmuring voices 
behind trees, the random
cheep cheep cheep of birds, 
the erratic rhythms
of basketballs, the squeak
and squeal of a bike chain
desperately in need of lube. 

and then my own breathing.
suddenly deeper as i realize
how much is constantly moving
in and out of my life; 
how little attention i pay
to the little things, 
how often i forget to listen
to anything at all.