This house is our shield,
our nest camouflaged,
our skysraper coat,

our duplex umbrella,
our cabin hat and our sunscreen
tiny home.

This house is our yoga pose,
the water we surface from,
sanctuary we pray in.

This house is our plot where
we trowel and prepare rows,
where we look out at the familiar

morning, where we can dig deep to
remove stones and make sculptures
out of them.  This house is where

we hammock and turn pages, where
we practice comedy routines
with our sidekick Moonbeam cat.

This house is where we molt
in spring like last year’s cattail,
where we can catch fire

like a phoenix and break ground
unimpeded like a tulip tree.

Leaf or bird,
seen and heard,
we listen and stare long,
wind or wing,
flutter or song there
on branches they share.

Minnesota marsh,
colors of silver and wheat
yearn and yield for spring

sunflower seeds, black
on snow, like piano keys,
played softly by virtuoso crows

Loons and Lions

Typing a poem about loons
lions keep appearing on the page -

lions fluting over my house,
echoing through the morning marsh,
through my kitchen window,
breaking into my meditation
of making bread.

I run out to see this “lion” flock
in time to hear their diminuendo call,
as if over the African plain,
haunting and velvet
as they disappear.

Not Charcoal

Hiding at home 
I think in charcoal,
read in charcoal,
play charcoal on the piano.
It is a new language

you refuse to learn. 

Walking in gray rain,
ashes smear into our hair.
You glance back, preparing 

us to run from a stalking,
advancing and retreating,
shadow.

You say soon we must fight, 

face the darkness of charcoal clouds

because colors

are worth dying for. 

Moon and Her Squirrel Acquaintance
Winter of 2020 -

Eye to eye, like in a mirror, they stare,
morning after morning, Moon and her squirrel 

acquaintance, through sliding glass.  

sunflower seeds and walnuts
plated on the snow provide
a delicious lure, a simple cure

for this long, worrying, winter.
I have been warned there is
no hope of friendship,

their near acquaintance doomed
by spring’s opening doors.
A cat hunts till the end.

Yet, Sir Stephen said, “while
there is life, there is hope.”
Doors will open,

screened to be sure,
each day a little more.
The sun will warm the deck,

melt snow, unfurl our luminous
green and blue world.  Perhaps
with sunflower seeds and walnuts

in a distant wood bowl,

a leash to tether Moon,
their near acquaintance

can endure,

eye to eye, morning to morning,

like in a mirror.

in grief she sang and roses fell
on hair and shoulders,
around her feet, like softly landing
apple blossoms, a hallowed
kiss upon her cheek