place, NE

long bristle-branch; duck!
thorns tear this way and that,
and at the end, the grass slips out
willing only for buttercups, and
some lighter wasps.

the two little bushes have little to say
even to each other; the stump
is always a fearful warning
and they fear to grow into it, and then
away from themselves.

at some point, the flowers made a name of it,
but seeing how indifferent the house remained
they sulked, and went away,
whilst we two inside grew,
and flaunted new colour.

accept

at the corner of the road
knowing my love, I know
that everything is as it will be.

asleep behind

vivid, my love lies dreaming
with patterns of fern and face
tangled up in his hair.
dark the lines of story
written by the clasping arms,
the shut eyes, weighted to the cheek.

as blind, I read the chapters
with curious hands—
the next part, and the next.

alberta

the wilder spring: not melting
but lashing itself free of the earth
beating a frozen heart, like a drum,
to stir the warm war winds
against cold hordes.

considering the next month

at the end of this, my spring in the year,
I can see the landslide, the dam bursting,
the washed-out roads, the flooded dwelling.
in the beginning of this, my spring of the year,
I shore up my houses, but I am afraid
that enough has been too little—
I cannot bind enough together
to stay above water.

the tense future

the archivist
makes his work
at the end of the road—
every sharp corner
is a paragraph.

northwest

against the wind, no head
lowered; no fear made
from lancing bursts
of cold, and colder ice.

grass still green, trees
sulkily retaining leaves,
while the few flowers
become convinced of a lying spring.

once it did snow, and then
even the tall pines were justified,
limbs spread like skirts in mid-dance.
as it melted, they withdrew.

winter theorem

the wind is in seven directions;
in the centre, the cypresses
plot against it, and hold it down,
releasing it in the morning
for a gulp out of the sun.

pacific

it lies sleeping; somewhere
between sea and shore,
branch and twig,
it curls with closed eyes
and dreams:
each landslide, each
temporary waking
is a seventh wave,
a knot in the bark.