Poetry  – 

Not Telling Anything New

You probably know
this is a box of gold,
woman throwing ashes
on the turned garden,
the snow that comes down,
wind soughing the meadow.

I am trying to see things as they are
but the moon might disappear
while you are looking, the ocean
cease to dwell in the sea
glass you hold.

I was afraid of losing him
and it happened.

Leaves decompose
in water the rain left,
tiny punched holes
elaborate as lace.

The only way I know
how to say this
is still not right.

I saw a bird carry her daughter
over the Great Strand River.

It gets cold. It gets dark.

There are bright specks on the snow.
Come, quick, before they fly away.