To a sister at Christmas, some years later

going through the photos
of that time your paper hat
split down the middle

and I gave you mine
to stop your fussing
to get to the matter at

to curl the fish,
to tell the joke,
to admire older kids
we didn’t know

and their accomplishments.

affixing your new
crown at an angle and
patting my now naked
middle parted hair,

you smiled and
bolted from the

and I missed you

365: One

“In Lucy Maud Montgomery style, describe the fall morning sunrise’s sights and sounds in seven sentences.”

Standing alone by the window, she took in the greyish countenance of the sky with weary eyes and felt reflected. The glass would be sealed for many months to come. Though the sun’s ascent was invisible behind countless turn of the century A-Frames, the stirrings of a few chestnut hoarding squirrels were chattering, muted, across the still air. Rowan boughs heavy with their scarlet offerings lent the window’s scene a little brightness. She longed to feel the crispness, allow the season’s calming to wrap around her from the outside, rather than merely take it in the essence of still life; but it was not up to her. The dying of one season had brought new life to her and her family’s small existence in Shelburne, and that life would protest her absence with much tiny fervor, should she seek the solitude of morning out of doors. Instead, she imagined the muted scents of lavender, thyme and rosemary moving through her nose and lungs and made a note in her mind to bring them in for drying as soon as possible.


you’re not getting any/younger,/not getting any/older./sit down,here,/with me awhile/and stop time./know it all./ I was, you were,/because we did,/somehow./ -but someone took/it from us,/stuck it away in a vault,/for hoarding/and miserly misery./empty crooks/and vacant/crannies,/stuffed instead with/distraction and guise/the inexplicable end/of enlightenment.


mother dirt

is a caressive down,

she has no sense of


mother air is

a lofty brow

she feels no need

for anonymity.

mother sea,

mother to me,

is a wanton curl



mother fire,

funeral pyre,

licks away at all our


mothers four,

mothers before

the Time of Men

and the Time of War;

weep they do not,

for they are assured

of their lot;

and their children will

always come as


lost are we, then,

the true and the ‘free’

taxing our mothers for


judge and rile,

flail and pile, we

shall never understand

the truth of the


Battle Mediation II

If you asked me what the sun looked like on that morning, I would not be able to conjure my memory. I do remember watching that sunrise, writing about it on my scraproll of paper; my name and three words, ‘Today is Here’ I etched into the dock I was sitting on. For more substance, I guess. I remember the hoarse honking of the geese, throwing in their towels again, leaving us poor mortals to the cold, dark confusion of winter. Or at least, it had been that way for us.

We shunned each season; were never satisfied with what the dawn brought. We were never in love. Never in hope or humor. Our machinery had done this to us. Devices had become so small and portable we never put them down. These methodically excised our emotions until even children were hard pressed to cry. If it was still within us to feel, we didn’t know it. Most of us, anyway.

The din of a thousand geese surrounded my ears, the sound of the Seraphim leaving us behind. Laughing on high at our folly.

It was not simply their usual flight, this time. I realized this incessant herald signaled a final leaving.  I can tell you what the sun did not look like when parallel, obsidian clouds began to cross it out. For a time before this, our race had come to understand why we must care for the space around us. But, frustrated with the whims of nature, we broke our viny bonds time and again with arrogant brain power and determination. Each time, we wondered at our agony.  “Today is Here”.

I spoke aloud, now, to the clearest of waters under my feet. A bravely solid fog had been pretending it might rain all along, but was receding into a heavy inkstamp against the treeline. One of the last. Nothing much still lived here, in the waters or otherwise. The colours of Autumn had multiplied over generations of variegated pollution and some leaves seemed to glow with the neon of my youth. I glanced at my canoe. Coming here had been a stopover for sleep on a long supplies run. Two others were with me, camping somewhere within my radius. We had been shocked to see one cabin still standing, however skeletally. We covered the holes in the walls and hid our food inside. The polar grizzlies could be about as late as December, hibernation becoming obsolete in these warming days.

I could hear the sonerant bombing and shooting in the distance. Though it had not reached this place, yet, it was continuous and its overwhelming vibrations rippled the water. The water never rested anymore.  We had become nomadic just five years before this day, taking to our feet and to the water, running for our lives from the ever expanding despair of civilization. 

Battle Meditation

there is a sun,

a supernova heart

pulsing with all

its eternity above

infinitesimal mornings;

days that never end.


watching it peel

back the exclusionist

fogs, the silent

steams tracing

the lips of the

lake with is mist

fingers, a touch

without the heaviness

of love.


a full cloud of it

set against the bays —

standing staid and

obstinate, pretends

it will continue its

ready matrix;


for all, its solidity.


it cannot

stop the sun from rising,

from changing its cloudy

nature to the simpler,

iconic invisibility of day.


there is a sun, rising

to the challenge of a


clear blue sky; the

goosey gargling in

the distance, and the

last of the sweet

to-whits ,


making their

angular way

to the beginning of

itall; to the promise of



before my eyes, the

brilliant crystal glitter

of frost encases wood;

another player, this time

glass pretending to be



a fish reaches

for the receding

mist and, not to be

outdone, the water

never rests.


there is a sun,

a supernova sigh

lighting my day,

warming my hands

and my brow,

inspiring this litany,

this necessary tedium

of writing it out —


just in case


someone asks me, one

day, what the sun

was like in the morning,

what the mists did

and what Autumn

sounded like,