Poems come tapping

when you least expect.  As did these this morning, from  impressions recalled from past-week ruminations, blog readings, and remembered observations:

Hooks and Ladders

desire to break the pattern
climb out

look back,
fear of lost habitude

loosening the bolt,
keeping the
chain

                                                         green mountain morning

                                                           at the woodcutter's house
                                                           he's repairing the roof
                                                           making stone walls
                                                           he shares his song
                                                           hers too

                                                           love lives there

Dust to Dust

scattering her ashes,
tiny fragments of bone
tumble into the sea.
he thought dust to dust meant 
. . .  Dust.
ash dust, not bone.

ash means nothing's left.
bone means I am holding her.
not her dust.
. . . Her.
in the palm of my
astonished hand


[first publicaton]