If we could have read the moon’s face
through the falling snow
that night we drove into its absent shadow,
it would have told us that the cold
sometimes melts things, too.
The train station, under hazy yellow lights,
fills with travelers arriving for Christmas.
We drive home with our father,
a faint smile crooked in the low end of his mouth.
Because the road hides so much,
more than once, Dad mentions black ice
the way he’d repeat an argument
until we understood. But when the car,
spins momentarily toward the guard rail,
he anchors us—and we are held
by his steadiness, which, for so many years,
we mistook for other things—
discipline, scolding, but mostly anger.
It’s time now to take this lesson
and file it safely under black ice,
reluctant blessings, how our father,
silver haired and breathing slowly,
saves his children’s lives yet again.

A poem from Four Blue Eggs, images from London



Eric at Gold Beach in Normandy, 2014

“The Leaves are Falling off the Trees”  ~Normandy 2014

Tanks do not float
and we cannot go backwards.

West to east, last to first
8:00 to 6:30
Juno Sword
Gold Utah

Resistance bicycles, full moon,
coca cola, chewing gum,

Donkey in a small fenced field.
Cemetery cat, friendly, fat, chaffinches.
Sacrifice, courage, cowardice.
How does your garden grow?

Ten thousand crosses—With eyes squinted,
the markings look
like school children holding hands.
Red beach, barbed wire.

Fox green, fox red.
Easy green, easy red.
white, green, red.