outside

she sits
longingly looks out the window
she's been doing this since kindergarten
always wanting to get out
whens she's in

outside - the trees, the river
the mud - outside

where there is a pie that waits
to be constructed from dirt
and twigs that wait for small
hands to assemble them into
a delicate bridge for maybe
a passing duckling

outside

Dad

You are right dad

About everything

Peas are good for you

Life is easier when

Everything has a place

It doesn't hurt

To have a smile 

On your face

You are right dad

About everything

I never really was

Doing anything good

When I was hanging out

You are right

It was a waste of time 

And now our time 

Here

Has passed 

Your grandson asked me if

Heaven would let you out

No, heaven won't

But your spirit is free

Our time here remains 

A gazillion pictures

Emails

Days at the beach

The boardwalk

No, heaven won't let you out

But your spirit is free

And it is with us every day

And I will tell my kids

That peas are good for them 

To keep organized

To smile

To never, ever hang out

And keep working hard

Life is short

You were right dad

a woman, a worm, a word

a word crawls around a page
seeking its place amidst other words
like a worm in the dirt, wriggly,
slow - barely noticeable -
but interesting
the way it moves, searching the soil
for a comfortable spot

some hope to shine
others hide from the light
afraid they'll be seen, caught

become a boy's bait
awkwardly hooked

re-written or misspelled
taken and then forgotten

a woman can relate to a worm
and a word

this earth

light at the fog's brim
fascinates the air with its
persistent brilliance

rain haiku

rain's quiet patter
drenches her white dress of clouds
a sudden stillness

current

a woman faces the current
upon her head -  a yellow fleece cap
barely hangs  on

words, water
over and over
run through and through
until they reach the end
and connect to another

body of water

the woman seeks stillness
a bay in moonlight
without her hat, the
sheer summer moon
lightens her hair

she listens for the quiet

the nightly show

separate and lifeless

strangely conversing about the not so interesting lives

of written characters

the stale room lingers,

shrinks