top of page

Out of the Fog
After heavy late winter snows, warm winds
blow up from the south, lifting white clouds
from snowbanks piled high
along walkways, parking lots, streets,
fog so thick it seems the sky has lowered
and we are lifted into it, quieted, expectant
as a sheet of paper or blank canvas
We sit on the verandah with earth-filled pots,
fog on the other side of the railing.
I haltingly say, I am on the edge of new words
and at once a flock of small dark birds appears
out of the fog flying straight toward us,
black marks against all that whiteness,
swings up and over the roof,
and then gone
Voices from the Porch, Main Street Rag

Rising Moon
Rising moon
a teacup tipped
on the horizon
the sky pours out
Hold no regret
in parting
Whose Woods These Are, The Word Works, Inc.
bottom of page