On these mornings
still beneath hoarfrost
I observe how
the deer never follow
the path we made
how the small hound
keen on a scent
steps precisely along
the cobbled line
of river stones
how they move
oblivious to us
as minor prophets
awaiting an opening
like the wind
willing to risk any turn
in constant yearn
of a clearing.

–first appeared in New Delta Review

Moving from Deep

the ocean gust raises the flag
of my small dog’s tail
just as it plumes
the heads of sea oats
clinging to dunes,
billows them both as if
there were no difference
between what is new and impetuous
and what is familiar and rooted
for it is neither,
this wind.

–first appeared in Poet Lore


The shore birds
eat their fill
and yet still
never give themselves
over to question
how tide decides
what to take,
what to leave.

–first appeared in Proper Words for Birds

White Noise

They say in truth
a white bear’s fur
is not white by itself
but steals its color
scattering reflected light,
the same as snow, as ice.
Pristine magnificence of polar bear
reclining cumbrous on the caps,
fishing deftly from the floes,
lies in fur’s transparent cores.
Then eye’s echo,
persistent white noise,
creates what seems pure form.
The substance of it is
accepting emptiness
as being filled.