spring makes everyone prolific for a season: some fragments written in a new journal.

“first warm day”

i sit, and watch
the squirrels hang their crescent tails
from the black alder, eating
the budding tips of branches.
they look dead, barely moving,
letting the wind lift their fur, noiselessly.

_____

“ten years”

in February, it was ten years
so I try again to find you.
you’re 28 now. the name I know as yours
might be maiden. do you have children?
or someone, a husband?

______

“stink bugs”

we tie back the curtains
against twilight, with brown
threaded ribbon. the radiators
whistle, the floors pop and crack,
walls breathing. stink bugs find
their way down the walls, into the sconces,
dying, cradled between frosted glass
and a 60 watt bulb.

_______

Advertisements