They said the green island turned red
but it was like Mars -which looks more
a rusty brown. Across town, I saw the tunnel
had cracked green tiles and I wondered
if parts of earth have sympathy pains-
like earthquakes in one place
and rains in another- that may be related
beyond air currents and geological shifts.

It’s not impossible. Because my heart
has learned to keep time with a poet
outside my valley and the moon
keeps getting larger in the window.
Love, I want to say, you are my moon,
growing larger in my landscape
but it’s hard to know if he can hear
over the cracking earth and windy nights.

The fat doves allowed the juncos
a little space on the perch-
plenty of seed for everyone.
It was quiet, the smaller birds
stifling their song
so they’d have a place to rest.

The man watching seemed
to enjoy complaining about
the mess and the noise yet
he kept filling the feeder with seed.
It was an uneasy peace.

It’s a quiet destruction
she keeps to herself
which nobody notices
because of the windstorm.

There’s no safe way to articulate
desire when superimposed
over an existing portrait
without losing some definition.

The wind shapes the hills
while she sits somewhat still,
feeling like a sand mandala
blown across burgeoning winter.

Marking time with mechanicals
is an exercise in the superfluous.
River rocks know etchings of real time,
wind and water wearing away
anything from yesterday.

I like to stand on the hill
with the wind sweeping
along my body, through my hair,
imagining my yesterday
worn away.

Things change rapidly
while I stand still
and let the wind
take the worry of time
somewhere else.