oh I see you, brown cat
in a winter field

the taste of my sixth year
is fresh straw strewn over a sidewalk,
honeysuckle wrapped around a fence

twenty-four is warm sea air on my skin

today is a mixed-up winter
with mice-in-hiding

I think if I make it,
seventy-four will smell
like woodsmoke over the lake

Sometimes, I wish I could bend
like I think I used to, when
kisses became part of late afternoon,
when pecan blossoms were carried
on a spring breeze

I don’t mind the cold so much,
as we’re husks now and it’s winter
and the horizon has more space
for imagining

It’s vivid dreaming where sun meets hills
and moon caresses the valley like home
and it’s comforting to think it’s for me

The seasons are at home in my skin
and in the places I go in the treeline

A phrase including “dilemma.”
A bitter longing better reserved
for caves and evening birdsong.

An astounding lack
of choice between
facing a stark naked winter
or spilling a verdant belly.
He gave us both
(but for how long?).

When the rhyme fell from her lips,
it was like the sky cracked
just a little. Summer storms
were eons away but the reminders
lingered in every stolen kiss,
unable to be tucked in our pockets.

Emptied a bowl of refuse
pretending it was regret,
because we excel at pretending.

A bitter longing after birdsong.
Wondering whether to cry or sing
or fall or fly. Or if there’s a difference.

Barbed snowflakes
smugly floating on a winter wind

staring at a bowl
and the shape of the spoon

taking the window seat
and choking on fumes

(the hole is ever widening)
(I couldn’t take away his aches)

nothing green tastes green
in winter

why does my angel let me face
danger in the afternoon

solid footing is elusive
and pockets are meant for secrets

the only true thing about love
is how the moon caresses the hills.