It’s the middle of May the sky the color of milk the wind quickening through the corridors of Copley Square

At dusk all things are gray except the lotus.

Early spring, rolling hills, buds just bursting from branches and I smell green once again.

Today, the reporter interviews one man returned to the rubble of his house. He is digging with his bare hands

If your voice causes the cedars to break and the deer to give birth, how much more should it cause my soul to wake

entangled in grapevine, the ache in my chest soothed

They tell me when I fell from the plank between haylofts, innocent about trying to follow the leader

She paced the church cell walls, not to escape but to touch, yearning for the stories of those passing by.

Though there are no boats on the channel only the moon leaving a wake

Blessed are you who vie with ants and all trespassing pests for yours is the companionship of angels.

Wade into slow rolling surf with blunted questions. Stay ankle deep for the length of a tide.

“There’s nothing wrong with any of this,” I tell myself. “It is but part of the material and the temporal, and I am but travelling through.”

Each pea becomes a miniature world in a galaxy of music, worlds rolling between God’s fingers.

By eminent domain, these squatters stake their claim, keeping house, to the delight of all of us...

Come with your lemon soap and witch hazel-scented wings and cleanse us...

Streams that carry my own thoughts that flow from watershed moments, and pour down the fall line

Anticipate the music – where it will be not where it is. Half a turn, please.

In this geographical location, the old one comes face to face with metaphysical questions.

In her face, I find grief’s white- rose solitude: white as sawn wood.

I wasn't as stupid as I made out to laugh at your silly jokes. But I don't regret my stupidity.