Poetry

Cutting

In the afternoons the boy fumbles with the hatchet like the razor he took from his father the day he wanted to shave the child off of his face. From my porch I watch him swing into a pitch pine at the edge of his field, its yellow flesh chipping

Cleave

The world makes no distinction between the knife that parts the wall or sorts the army your heart has built, or the one that makes room and way for love, that open space we fill with nights by the creek or sprawled on quilts to watch the Perseids fall above…

Passing of Grief

Your desert boots in the corner of the closet, slump against hardwood where you left them by the door, where I left them by the door, that cracking sound they made when lifted from that hard, still place, something giving way. Canoe through Shenandoah current where

Take This Leaf

. . .read these leaves in the open air every season, every year of your life. –Walt Whitman Open to air and sky, one feels none other than small, a particle, a part, a leaf, a blade of a great whole. Feel the rustle, stir, and hum as all moves together,give…

Persist

Sun-dappled drowsy fawns sprang up at every turn of the trail last spring. The doe deposited them, always apart, in thickets, brush piles, honeysuckle warrens, collected them at day’s end. I often saw them in shadows, suckled in the gloaming,

Follow

I waved my hand over the patch, but made no shadow in the place. —Maurice Manning The chemo clouds and veils thought, a stream hits a rock dam, splashes, diffused, lost but to weeds and mud. A reader cannot read, follow the course of thought through a chapter, the flow…

Abscission

September arced across the mountains, a warm hay-breeze swirled among the graven stones, nudged faded oak leaves to chatter, stirred the scent of carnations and the sharp odor of mums that rose from that patch of turned earth. The day a mountain postcard, dogwoods rusted at woods’ edge behind the…