Poem
I spent a week painting varnish
onto the poem in long strokes,
sanding until it glowed like butter.
I cut notches in the poem’s sides
and joined them like hands praying,
glue seeping from dovetailed corners.
Here the finish ran before it dried,
raising itself into a mound
like a thorn pushed under skin.
Your family when they visit
will run their hands along the poem
and praise my devotion,
ignoring scratches smoothed
or lumps of varnish sanded.
I know the weaker joints,
the splotches of stain beneath.
I have felt with bare hands
where the wood warps
and won’t cross squarely.
Departures
On the brightest day in December
my grandfather beams through the windshield
of the passenger side, neck craned
to glance the flits and flicker
of a wren looping circles above.
We skim the highway toward the airport,
mile-markers stretching behind us
like an old trail through a wide plain.
The silver bottoms of planes flash overhead.
His eyes are fixed on dancing wings
that churn and lift a feathered soul higher
like chosen words finding meaning.
In February
And now shadows of snowflakes
are wisping across the walls of my study
like confetti thrown in a parade.
Never before have I seen winter so erratic.
In Oregon today, after early snow
and rain and hail, and then clear blue skies,
the snow returned again, rubbing shoulders
with the brilliant sunlight, intruding
on the scene like a noisy unexpected
guest, blind to custom, who leaves
and leaves you sorry for her passing.
Prelude
February again.
No broad rim of snow
to dust the earth,
but rain beating triplets
on the windshield.
No howl of wind—
only the ostinato hum
of the dashboard,
bright sedative of gauges
and the radio turned low.
Then you in scrubs walking
through sliding doors:
the rest is prelude.