Bo

cannot see the thunder,
finds it when the hair
bristles on his ears,
tastes lightning through
a black nose, huddles
close to a warm thigh
his glazed eyes call home

the mountain

has carved its hills
and valleys into me,
rock by tree by waterfall,
the laughter of guitar
strings, the whisper
of words as they echo
inside my throat, the wind
picking up, carrying
fingers along steep curves,
the taste of memory
to the back of the eye.

Upstate NY

colder here than June
is supposed to be, blackbirds
seem not to mind, glad

for puddles in a driveway
reflections muted
by a sunless sky above

on this road

i pledge allegiance
to dotted white lines,
the guard rail,
speed limit signs,
as 18-wheelers let me pass
going uphill, pass me back
going down, exit signs
wait
for my entrance

blogspotting

in time, we find each
other by the arrangement
of colors in a box, black letters
on a field of white, the sun
on the walls that surround us

orchids

we surround them, not knowing
their names, not knowing our own,
playing tic-tac-toe with all
the shades of green, the stems
broken in half at the water line