Both glint in the setting sun and the ashes of the stoked wood,

both carve into one another as the lake laps into another midnight

The me of old

Blinded to the energies

swirling and eddying

She loved like it was instinct.
Like breathing.
Like if she gave enough of herself,
no one would ever have a reason
to hurt her.

I’ll be thinking about Nature,

Lake Superior

Feeling so major, 

As I walk on the shore,

Grounded by the sand floor.

you’re in your own lane

cruising authentic, choosing to choose

under the same sun but glacially

opposite

when I am old will the grass regret 

how I walked across its back so tenderly, 

or will they too grow old and so, forget?

How the snow shows its gratitude

by adorning their starkness!

Passing through lifetimes of yellows and reds

Not to or from a thing, we run and run

In winter I get up at night, 

to look upon the weary sky 

to stare out at that single, lidless eye

as it gazes through the flakes of white 

She died. And each day we discovered disconnected items in large quantity. Boxes in a variety of sizes filled closets from floor to ceiling.

I strut my pot belly full of poetry,

cultivate brain sparks, turn into firewords.

Can you see me?

Can you hear me?

Am I still here?