Friday, July 16, 2010

एवेर्य्थिंग इस स्टोरी

Everything is story: The yellow finch at the bird feeder.Sister with her lips red, mother in the wine.Father keeps the seed in the little house where the finch returns.

I am all poet and it ruins my scope.The storm washes over the lakethe dog's feet sound like bird clawson the wooden floor, he turns upto rest his head in my lap. No love better than dog love, early this summer morning.

Against a sea of pine green the white birchtrunk charts—severe in manner—the distance between the white hips of memoryswing, and she, mother, lover, sister, dream,retreats or returns, a bowl of water in her handsurging you to wash the tips of your fingers cleanand enter with her, the dream. I remember.

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About Me

I once heard a poet speak of the mouth of the river -- a place I sensed was full and rushing with both glee and the sorrow that makes us seek higher thought through which we might be sustained in this wilderness of passing through. Welcome. Please write me here often.
I am a writer, teacher, and mother living in Vermont.