This poem was first published in Nomad’s End, Finishing Line Press, 2010
On the long way home from the bus stop,
kicked-up leaves gather in the trenches
along the side of the dirt road
pushed together by moving cars and people walking.
Overhead, camouflaged by their uniformity, birds
meander the sleek birches as a girl, goofy and marvelous,
ambles past the Wilson’s house and mica rock
making up characters and acting out moon stories.
In the earth’s penumbra, her circle of playmates
holds hands, not minding when the rain
discovers their marathon, hoping the cross winds,
full of tea parties and bittersweet chimes,
will sweep them away to the company of trees.
There is no sound like this ample baritone
which echoes a young girl’s thinking. In solitude
there is always singing, always voices
saturated and golden, sublime
waltzing through perfect shadows pianissimo.