on spring. a poem.

i love it when the rain falls

hard on the clods of dirt left all over the yard

the day before

melting them into the ankle high grass

thick with the thrill of spring

and all the hacks of my shovel

and all the sore in my hamstrings

and all the cuts on my arms

feel worth it

because of the rain

smoothing it all into place

   

       

dogs on a frosty morning. a poem.

you felt the sun for the first
time since forever
and ran, the frozen air
freedom’s heist
on a cooped up soul
and on the slow jaunt back
home, frost clung to the bare
branches reaching desperate
and shimmering wild
toward the light

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in every thing. a Thanksgiving poem.

in
every
thing
the thanks comes
swollen
like a womb
full and wide

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in
every
thing
the thanks comes
shrunken
like the blotchy calloused hands of one who sits alone

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in
every
thing
the thanks comes
angry
like the plow shearing withered stalks

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in
every
thing
the thanks comes
held
tight by a hungry man bitter and begging for a belly full of peace

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in
every
thing
the thanks comes
undone
by the mercy of sunrise and sunset and summer and spring and winter and fall and the hard sharp wonder of it all

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