Wednesday, January 18, 2012

 My Apologies

The ducks of this weather
are stony. By afternoon
the lake disappears
like swans on the wing.
Someone kind
left apples and pecans
for winter’s varied thrush
and the orange of his belly
alarms me.
Finally I have allowed myself
solitude, only to find
it does not suit me.
I watch birds with ruffed
feathers and recall the white
of my thighs when
we made love by the river.
Of course I miss you.
Isn’t that my body
remembering my body?

Sunday, January 8, 2012


By Tess Gallagher
I go to the mountain side
of the house to cut saplings,
and clear a view to snow
on the mountain. But when I look up,
saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in
the uppermost branches.
I don’t cut that one.
I don’t cut the others either.
Suddenly, in every tree,   
an unseen nest
where a mountain   
would be.