Poetry

We gave each thing its morning dew and went our little blade. / We put our feet on sand and glided ligaments and grains. . . .

Up over the foothills a wolverine / is giving away his hide to the highest /
bidder. . . .

I wish it were that simple, / watching for omens, seeking / guidance on the long road. / The shadow travels through / most days. . . .

In the Svalbard Seed Vault oleander / rests with rosemary, saffron, roses and / fescue and the five thousand blameless / orchids; across the hall, petrified wheat / adjoins a wealth of conifers.

No lilac, no thimbleberry, no blackcaps. / No hummingbirds. No autumn olive.

Of all those old truths now no longer true, / the truth that the truth’s the truth is the one / I miss most.

the gulls ate bread from the hair of children / who built castles out of marine bone. . . .

Your cloud line merging into lake line / you change by increments // strata of silvers and blues. . . .