Friday, September 30, 2011

all the different things you can mistake for a bird

Now the trees are a burnt sienna.
As songbirds move north over the city
you return from a trip east with your arms  
full of tomatoes, a new shirt. I am discerning.
The tomato was once said to be noxious
for leaves akin to deadly nightshade.
I don’t blame anyone-- even tonight
there are storm clouds on the radar
while the ground is dry as bone. 
I don’t care whether you see a cloud 
or a flock of birds: when you look at the sky
I see the underside of your chin.
We learn migratory birds burn muscle
for water during flight, not fat, and it is only
the leaves of tomatoes that can kill you.
Look how knowledge doesn’t expand, it
changes. When we met you were wearing
a different shirt, the trees were an asparagus
green, and I was with another man.
Tell me, what will you cook with your tomatoes?

Sunday, September 25, 2011

i'm not a player i just crush a lot

coming up later this week: crafts with purpose.

can you tell we're sisters?

i try not to look directly at the sun.

who can resist this face? i guess i will feed him.
house and dog sitting for my parents this week! good thing they like to cuddle. or else i'd be lonely.

Sunday, September 4, 2011

a lost poem

I can be glad I am up early

this first morning without you.
I have bought the good eggs
and the good coffee.

I do not miss your constant
checking of the weather,
or your work boots scattering
dirt across the hardwood floors.
I do not miss your heavy
morning sighs.

This is what I like about morning:
What I don't yet know
about the day.

I am content drinking coffee,
not yet knowing if the grey sky
will open, not yet knowing
what I will miss about you
when I walk out the door.