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
A poem about a little girl sitting in a whicker chair, watching a parade go by from her spot in the bay window.
The sky is oiled orange
gleaming along the metal
and matte of cement steps
A long pendulum dip
Followed by
Splattered drops