Second Thoughts


Second Thoughts

Birches with peeling bark
root with certainty in the spring soil
while the ifs
of the inorganic world outshine
the quiet, sun-soaked solitude.
Stretching on a lazy rock,
I manufacture thoughts and watch them
roam like hawks, settling
now and then on rabbits, mice,
the occasional thesis.

A balmy spring wind flaps
the empty pages of an untold tale
like parade flags waving at bystanders.
If I stay long enough
the paper will yellow and parch,
and if the wind stops, my eyes
will ambush the conclusion.





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.