so far this season
has been unseasonably cold
with its sunlight
sprinkled sparsely
on a stone wall

dawn oozes over the hills
like chilled syrup
with a few clouds
stuck in its puddle

the ancient pine begs the wind
to give it back its youthful figure

in late dusk, the meadow
spreads a great shadow

as twilight peers
in at my window
then shakes its head
and walks away

moonlight
drops handfuls of stars
in the tall grass

thoughts settle on their perches.

a single feather drifts down

no news is good news. (there are two
ways to read that--either an absence of news
is good, or all news is bad)

the chimney sweep showed up today
and swept the chimney. (well, not
actually with a broom,
he used several rods that fit together,
a rotating drill rig,
and some chains.) he was full
of news, none of it good.

the creosote was formidable,
the cellar, moldy. ( i first spelled that
like celery without the "y") he told me
that i really need to do something
about the stove and the mold.
( that's what all the guys say)
he doesn't know about my bad spelling.

it's true i once slept with
the chimney sweep
more than once.

but there was a reason for that--

he and i were married, lived in a
simple cabin
and had several children
one of whom
he delivered (sans doctor)

(not exactly true--i did the delivering,
he did the catching.) it's odd
that today he's "sweeping" my chimney.

he has rewritten history, erasing
the part where he abandoned us,
and never bothered with his kids again...

"i'm not into it," he said.

it's true i once slept
with the chimney sweep,
more than once. (once
when i could spell
and i was young.)

you know this is a landscape that
brings me to the brink
as the bitter edges of things
slide into memory

but something
is given back from the abyss--
sorrow dusted off,
calmed by the ferocious
storms of summer

carried by rain
in the resurrection
of the orchard.

there are ghosts of drunks
and dead teenagers
along this mountain road,
their voices echoing along
the curves and sheer bends
of broken guard rails

but there is a soft spot
in everything
even this fierce geography,

and after a slice of moon,
a scrape of sky,
an armful of rain,
the sky leans
towards the absolute

so thick with longing
that it is

almost impossible to breathe

day after day
dark clouds hang around
looking sad
and weeping a few tears.
scattered saplings
gently question the sky:

when will the soft sunlight return?
when will the flowers
dry their petals?
when will people
have real wisdom
instead of laws
and online newspapers?

when will songs well
in a heart heavy with too much news?

but there is only rain
to moisten this sodden earth,
only clouds dark as mountains
gazing around sadly

the shape of the wind
is dictated completely by emotion.
when it lifts the hair on the back of my neck
it takes the shape of a pair of hands.
and when a light rain sweeps across the grass,
the wind hangs its head in sorrow and in shame.

trees are shaped by the wind;
and the color of the sunset
is determined by the shape of the day,
the tides by the roundness of the moon
while clouds take their form
from the skies in my eyes

moths immolated by a candle
give the flare to its flame.
desires weigh thin in time,
hearts become flattened
by the heaviness of advancing years
and become the shape
of a red stranger in a mist
with torn fragments of composure

turning inward to hide