The weather forecast made me

cry and whether it was

the falling barometric pressure

or the severe drop in estrogen,

I understood Chicken Little

like never before

and just hoped I’d survive

until the next surge.


myth of perfect circles

he held a bird in his naked hand,

oblivious to the throngs of people

waiting for a song


clouds spoofed better days

by huffing and puffing across

azure skies, leaving mile-high happy trails


I’m being led to loll about

in scenes that aren’t really there

and I don’t want to know what’s true


we’re either being spit out by

a universe that knows we’re a mistake

or being swallowed by our own delusions


if he lets go, will the bird leave a feather

as a memento or as a warning

and is there a difference

A quiet swirling

It’s a rather desperate longing

and I can’t tell

if it’s for tea or touch or new twists

on old loves that’s pulling;

the supermoons have been relentless

and spring is violent this year.

I can keep up, I say uncertainly

drawing wool over limbs eager

for warm places.

hiding under my wing

the cloud was scary

and did not move fast enough


I wonder at the shape of feet

(though mostly I ignore them)

and other vessels of transport

or destruction


there was no rain

and night was wishful thinking


could I repopulate a town

if I had to start over

and is it even worth it

to notice stars in the dark


buds burst open on trees

as if in a race toward hope


the crow was jaded and sleepy

– I am that crow


The storm reminded me of

exotic foods like jelly

and uncomfortable things like

moth-ballsy-tweed and chalky milks.


My refuge was a smoke-stained poncho

and a world of make-believe,

but that was 40 years ago.


I’ve loved old books since I was little

and many times I’ve wished

for an elbow-patch savior

to rise from the stacks

and carry us to a place of quiet abandon.

I know there’s always a mess

after a storm; I just hope there’s bread.