I pretend to not understand the empty emptiness of the cello.
I’m called to keep my secrets safe.
Before morning breaks and before the spear of sunshine pierces
there’s still something dark;
maybe it’s not really empty but just
so full I can’t see through it.

Above the fluid
rise, a spear of sun
separated night
clouds and I knew that
I had been dreaming.

A dance so green could
not be real, not with
vivid instructions
from sly grasshoppers
to the moon and back.

I felt like asking
for more pages but
before the morning
finished its breaking
across my window,
I heard my own hum.

I clutched my tea as
sunrise shot through the
roof, and dreams faded
into that sweet realm
where one can’t be sure
where the song came from.

bare apple and walnut trees
crumbling stone walls
echoes of lowing cows
daddy’s been gone 50 years

faded crinoline and fretted aprons
creaky rocking chairs
winter has taken all

He was mine through a country song,
she said, and I knew she meant the dance
in winter hay mostly covered in snow.

Heaving and hoeing in shadow
a harvest not innocent or wicked,
sort of alive and in flux, not like a bruise
but rather a soft flowing mercy.
Toiling atop a mound of pipe,
they make a merry windfall.

After looking at 39 pieces of art,
she felt like a giant rat,
but split down the middle.
Line-dancing through traps
a light switch became a totem.
The Masters are solid in the dark.