garbage sonnet

they used to knock the whole can down, these winds
that tear across the unobstructed field;
but since the willful weather never ends
the can now has the building for its shield.
Some person, sick of stooping down to raise
it from its fallen posture on the grass,
has pulled it closer the wall. Most days
I scarcely notice it at all, just pass
it on my way inside. But recently
a rustling caught my ear and made me look:
the crinkling bag seemed restless to be free;
the can stood solid, though I think it shook
from strain at holding tightly to the thing
that wind enticed to break out and take wing.

night visits

I imagine them brushing the surface
of wakefulness as I enter the room,
the hallway angling its light unobtrusively
past me, my shadow climbing floor
to wall before me. I check blankets,
adjusting them up to silent chins,
shifting bodies to center them on
the pillow, move overhanging arms
back under the covers, collect sighs
and murmured sleepwords, and then
withdraw. I worry that were they
to wake, they might mistake
me for a monster, sliding between the beds,
bending over each one, reaching down.
They might cower, feign sleep, dread
the silent approach of the looming dark shape.

No, they wouldn't cower.

They faced down a more fearful monster
hours before -- one that didn't creep
on quiet feet, one that stormed, fumed,
raged, and threatened, one that promised
harm if they made a peep, if they put
off sleep for even one more minute.
If they so readily dismissed that beast,
sleeping serenely though they know
he is still in the house, why fear his
peaceful return? Rather, in their redemptive way,
they turn up their cheeks to his kisses
and accept the quiet gestures of reconciliation.

altar

on her knees before the behemoth machine
rising before her in solid boxy majesty
her head lowered to peer into its shadowy
inner workings, she extends a certain hand
and draws out crumpled white scraps,
discards them on the floor, reaches back
for more. At length, she raises her eyes
imploringly to the the glowing panel
above her head, seeking approbation.
The flashing red light become solid green,
confirming her hopes, as if with words:
Well done. She has removed the offense.
Her mission complete, she rises to her feet
and walks away, bearing in her hands
the fruit of her persistence.

morning moon

Perfect as a picture
A small black bird flapped into the upper branches
of a pine, bold and green against a morning blue sky
just above the point of which hung the pale
translucent disk of moon, a fresh-blown bubble
lifting from this unlikely wand

or was it sinking?

from the parking lot at work
just 6 miles and 10 minutes north
the same ghostly shape floated over empty hills
across the lake, having drifted from
the proximity of tethering limbs
it looked farther away, lonelier,
surrounded by wide blue expanses
slowly swallowing it whole.