There it splays in winter trees

    for just this moment,

    the play among the gray, the bark


    cleansed by snow, the branches

    gouged by frantic squirrels, across

    from the sloping porch, the railings


    sunken into the bare wood, each

    thing reflected in the other, throwing

    shadows like foil into the melting street


    where finally the light sings and washes

    the empty air and rises

    alone for the morning doves


    that sit on the wet slick wires

    threading the sky like music lines

    and the shadows creeping in this room.







    The birds have no wings.

    The skies in my sleep are blank gray,

    whirling with an emptiness

    that fills my sheets.


    A fat robin stands on a rose bush:

    light, brilliant, loud as a violin,

    unlike the other birds, indistinguishable.


    The breeze brushes my face

    as it stirs the red petals like paint.

    The robin’s chest furls where I feel the wind

    in my hair as I wake.