From the Space Between Songs

November’s dawn sets the clouds above my tea ablaze

And highlights the copper buried in my hair.

There’s a soft flavor to these mornings,

A soundless settling into the season as the

Sun peeks through fresh-bared branches to

Lend gentle warmth to a crisp, pale scene.

The roads nearby rush headlong from

Brilliant oranges and rich harvests to

Bold reds and taffeta bows,

But I want to linger here a little longer

In the quiet brown.

Across the street, a Cooper’s hawk perches on a

Bough obscured a week ago.

Her catch is parting southward or burrowing in;

She doesn’t seem to mind.

Her eyes point eastward,

Savoring the golden silence with me.

Maybe she’s just resigned herself to the

Approaching dead of winter,

Or maybe she feels the reverberations of

Something low and steady

Rising from the shorn earth,

Sinking into the space between songs –

The deep inhalation before a new phrase begins,

The moment you pause and remember

What you’re meant to say.

Margins

I’ve spent eight years trying to

Summarize the sweet grief

Of dried pine needles stuck

To the bare heels of my feet,

But prose doesn’t linger on

Thick swatches of forest green.

It can’t begin to scratch the

Surface of time lost in

Diagonal rows of light

Dashed across the

Afternoon floor.

I can’t capture this collection of

Moments inside a louder plot,

One that reduces the smell of

Cantaloupe and coffee to

Scene development of Chapter Three,

That chains symbolism to the

Nebulous ties between

Mallard wings and tortoiseshell glasses,

Or casts foreshadows

Over napkins tied into

Mice at the kitchen table.

I see verses waiting in the

Folds of lace curtains and

Wish I were apt enough to

Honor them.

The places where I used to

Step back to summer are

Fading away.

They’re painting over shutters and

Tearing down the walls you

Used to watch me climb.

But I can close my eyes and

Picture you there.

I can cut loose the plot to

Find you in the poetry.