when it is time
the sun sets pink on the birch
and it will be winter
we are no stranger than we were
gingered joy will have melted after
icicles give way to early lilacs
and the touch against forgetting
comes to an end as it did before the window
that we have looked through together
for those long nights of atonement
Late one afternoon last year, during a troubled time in my life, I took a long walk on the beach.
A day of rain was ending. Watery sunlight shone on glossy …
Music does not matter
Not much poetry to read
The fresh air by the lake
Only helpful to the lungs
Throughout the year, I rarely dream
But meditate a few times
My life depends on others
Some …
For years, I’ve told people that I started keeping a journal at 13. But when I go back and look, what do I find? I was an elderly 15, already …
If words attire thought
what is thinking
when carnage is daily weather—met with an itch
to switch the channel—a call to the misnamed
Department of Public Safety to confront gun awe—
no words–but flesh is …
Have I become cynical? Probably. Anxiety
mounts the horse of optimism and drives
her into the ground. There is no here here
and I am trapped in the melody of mountain
and …
When icicles hang by the wall And Dick the shepherd blows his nail And Tom bears logs into the hall And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is …
Like a Buddhist painting, winter caps the peaks of Sierra Escalona, its frosted strawberry trees mourning what’s to come. Acorn seedlings fleck the ground in soft contrast and high in …
by Li-Young Lee While the long grain is softening in the water, gurgling over a low stove flame, before the salted Winter Vegetable is …
by Mary Oliver Hello, sun in my face. Hello, you who make the morning and spread it over the fields and into the faces of the tulips and the nodding morning …
