Australia, 1975, on a spring evening
coming home from a night at the pub
with my teaching colleagues, I found,
propelled to the porch light,
some insect hatch—

Sitting with Iris

Charmed one, flower of summer, everyone’s love child—wearied of being passed arm to arm, she comes to my lap on the bench outside the door where late June sun is spreading shadows around the goldfish pond. I whisper to her the litany of what’s before us: a junco hopping in Indian plum dragonfly darting for…

Alongside Her Dying

The courtyard Buddha sits before the light fringe of white alyssum in dark November. Let those frayed ruffles stand for what fades away these mornings, as though Persephone had gathered the blooms to strew downriver. The first grey clouds drift like something torn from her hem. In the vault of morning, memory strays as juncos…