Mountains are earth, rebelling
Straining against dirt-ness
against gravity
Fighting toward mystery
to sky and moon and God
Throwing off bonds and
ripping roots
become more and more
a beacon in the day
a solidness by night
Crying out in hope:
mere mud can stand high
transcend
though all the world yanks
at its skirt hem
The hose is on
running clear into black
of garden earth.
A sudden car trip in the dark.
Your blue hands
curled in the coffin.
A poem about a childhood adventure in imagination
The sky is oiled orange
gleaming along the metal
and matte of cement steps
Stealthy in bare feet
three bandits come.
Prize swivels high between
striped green leaves.
A poem about a little girl sitting in a whicker chair, watching a parade go by from her spot in the bay window.