Poet, cyclist, mother, lawyer, daughter, nature-lover, wife, photographer. Fan of Yeats, John Irving, Margaret Atwood, Wes Anderson, the Impressionists, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Martin Luther, Jesus. Not in that order.
Brown beer bottle clots spot Winter’s arterial ditches; He coughs up litter – golden bow from a Christmas wreath, a decaying newspaper fat with ads. A dead deer is suspended in the cold water at the edge of the forest, glassy eyed – a Russian Tsar, preserved; Winter clings to the brown land, a lover … More Folding Winter
Up, as the sun stretches lazily across the unmade bed of the Midwest and taps the Pacific shore, rousting the shore birds, up before they planned, before coffee, before mirror, up before their war paint and fences, they come out with leashes, wrinkled pajama pants, and flip flops that softly slap and whisper sleepy recognition … More Dog Walkers in Manhattan Beach
The year before the plane finally nosed into the frigid winter sky Was the slow grating scrape of a wooden match along the cold cement, Until I burst into a bright circle of flame; all else recedes in the Haitian heat; Tiny stuttering flames of Kreyol a flicking tongue against the landscape; (rutted and rock-strewn … More Match Girl
The scolding birds caught first my ear, then drew my eye into the tangle of midnight black pine tree silhouettes pressed hard against the late afternoon palette of deepening blue strewn with soft blooms of white, my glance caught then by the barred owl with his back against the black bark and his head … More The Bard Owl
First winter snow has tripped and falls and falls, I lace my boots and take my sheltered lens; Behind me, windows throw a yellow pall of slanted patches on white-trousered lawns; Snow stills the trees and fills the prints of those who walked ahead along the unlit road; We will not meet, my pace unhurried … More Unleashed (A Sonnet)
I. What happens To the bicycles in Munich; The ones punctuating the cobblestone paths – Locked to the bike racks, lampposts, street signs In sun, rain, sleet, snow, heat Wheels bent into parentheses, Or missing entirely, Or outwardly fine, Frames rusted, scratched, or gleaming, Just Forgotten about entirely locked up and misremembered rented and abandoned … More Fine Ruin (Bicycles in Munich)
This poet pinned behind his ’63 Smith Corona at the art fair; he tilts his hat and waits for you To come, to ask him to free this poem not yet written, the one now held hostage inchoate in the fractal web of ether- He’ll lure it onto the page with whispers and worn keys … More Catch and Release
Driving toward the river in the new autumn dark, (carload of cheese and bread and plans, clean towels and swimsuits that won’t be used, a guitar, a bike, assumptions and wine) Winking lights ahead cast a curious spell on my watchful eyes, Blinking from what I daylight know to be the country cemetery; Solar … More Night Picnic, Wallace, MI
Dark spreads like blood pooling beneath the bruised skin, but warm – Or as though the earth is an eye, lids closing slowly and shadowing inward, And in this swelling night, in this place slowly cooling to the touch, The air compressor blasts and growls, channeling breath into the long-resting tires, So they may ride … More Dark Rides
Halfway North 