Snow light moves
through the wood
in the warm evening.
Practicing for later. 11-3-12
Making a valley through the cloud,
the sun decided to join our day.
We all breathe the light. 11-3-12
Too cold for wren to sit still
on the maple trunk.
A burst of feathers in the light. 11-6-12
This maple’s last leaves
are yellow, holding on
like lost fog. 11-6-12
Many feet move through
the early woods—
deer feet stepping high. 11-6-12
The only red left now in the southern
wood is the reflection in the window—
my red sweater. 11-7-12
Redbird flies under
blue jay’s shout.
A cold wind. 11-7-12
Most of morning light
comes from honeysuckle’s
new yellow leaves. 11-8-12
Brown wood, gray sky
softened by lingering orange leaves
moving one by one
in the early winter wind. 11-8-12
Leaf by leaf
the wood lets the sun
in for its winter rest. 11-11-12
Is it the same woodpecker
I chased off the house
last week? He gives me
the same dirty look. 11-11-12
The shelf of yellow holds
light caught from a watery sun.
Brown oak leaves nose their way through. 11-12-12
A thousand points of counterpoint
between lime and rust—
myrtle’s autumn song
plays on our grateful eyes. 11-12-12
Orange and yellow,
not any orange and yellow,
but November’s orange and yellow
wet with rain. 11-13-12
Deep in the rain-damp wood,
hickory’s last golden leaves
waving goodbye. 11-13-12
The gray clouds moved down to see today,
to see honeysuckle’s brilliant
lime light. 11-13-12
Redbird comes to see if
the person in the window is still me.
It is. I’m watching winter from the window
and her part is still red. 11-14-12
The sun is in the middle of the wood.
How can that be? I’m in the middle of the wood.
Does the light breathe? It does.
It breathes the sweet morning breeze. 11-14-12
Honeysuckle’s yellow leaves
take up the forest call.
Above, dogwood’s single rusty note. 11-14-12
Honeysuckle doesn’t mind the
gray morning sun.
She’s her own yellow. 11-20-12
Blue jay in the morning.
for himself. 11-21-12
The high sun
still leaves. 11-21-12
Falling orange oak leaves
catch the sun
all the way down. 11-21-12
No help for it.
Against the red orange leaves,
it’s a violet sky. 11-21-12
A backlit woods.
Tall black trunks
ground the shimmering eye. 11-22-13
A quiet girl reading on the couch—
the aardwolf and all the others
capture all her breath, her reading breath.
A flood of blue—
Yellow honeysuckle’s breath
brought close to my face.
Left red—the last berries. 11-24-12
Unmoved by the winter wind—
a memory. Moving light resting on her
a memory. Moving light resting on her
eyes, on her hands, her moving hands. 11-24-12
Broken up and scattered—
winter light, sparkling
in the hollies, the inkberries,
on my eyelashes. 11-26-12
11540 Blix Street, North Hollywood
The place of memories is gone.
The chimney, the roof,
the narrow place where she sat between
the sink and the stove.
The sink gone, too, the woman
washing the dishes, the light from
the window falling down her wrinkled face.
The window gone, too.
All gone. 11-26-12
My grandfather said it would never come down
in an earthquake and it never did, not in any
of the earthquakes. It was the bulldozer
that brought it down, brought it down easily. 11-26-12
My Dark Room
Chain link fence on three sides, like a prison,
my bedroom painted dark brown,
the windows too high to see out of,
a closet packed with discarded toys,
but in the near corner,
a desk, my desk, my typewriter, an anchor to
a future I couldn’t see, not ever.
And on my desk, a Japanese painted porcelain pig,
free from a bank on the other side of the
salted valley, round and full of promise and pennies,
the only light in my dark room. 11-26-12
Lime and rust.
The only warmth
under a gray, grizzled sky. 11-27-12
Thinned by cold,
the last of summer’s light. 11-27-12
The same color as winter wood,
squirrel shivers her tail just before her leap,
her leap through gray air
as quiet as the rain. 11-27-12
The last leaves fall down through
the opened wood. 11-29-12