I know what the problem is.
I haven't hugged a tree in months,
retreating this winter from nature -
beloved siblings of leaf and wood.

She was covered more than a nun,
 black as coal. I knew nothing of her,
  except she could be me
   by the blink of God
    and I her.
     Then I would trail behind him
      aware he is eyeing a colorful woman
       head to toe coveting her,
        she, poet, creator of goodwill,
         suddenly senses being opened,
          like a packaged commodity.
She doesn’t know I am a poet of prayers,
creator of goodwill too and I’m sorry.

   

The old poet speaks
to time vanquished.
We, one with her
imaginings,
step with her lithe feet,
see through her ocean eyes,
tenderness.
Even the powerful,
distant or fearful,
break on waves.
The old poet speaks.

Spring!
Icicles sparkle,
instead of daffodils.

The Help Line

Uninterrupted, wound and wounded,
barely breathing she runs on
without pacing her words and thoughts.
Letting go of redirection,
(I used to try to stop her and she’d shove
my words away.)
I listen.  
I know her lonely story, the crying plot,
though she does not cry.
She says she is grateful;
I am the only person
in the entire world who listens.
She doesn't know, I’m drawing
her chrysanthemums.

Michael recites my love poem,

on his way to dog sledding

on the Iron Range -

last time it was from a helicopter,

before jumping into sky.

I sit silent on the sofa.

His sweet, strong voice

I would eat if I could,

clear, through the phone.

I tell him so, in the accent

of the Transylvania Count, 

"I want to eat your voice."

he laughs, then says,
"and I have eaten your poetry.
Many times. This poem is mine."
In the space between us I hear
swishing of wind shield wipers
clearing away snow.

I encounter myself
the moment I
start singing.