windrag : poetry : journal

i am cognizant of when i need six syllables
i know when two will do. it’s time
to bring fresh flowers from the yard and fold the laundry
i’m not expecting guests

red fir floor, hand-polished, and pitted in places
hand-woven horse blanket, hand-braided rag rug,
both of old wool, and fished out of cans at the curb
tobacco-colored-tailbone-and-shin-home

confused by sickness and lack of sun, i step
outside to see if the moon is up
my neighbor must be thinking “why’s he turning
around and around like that?”

sick in bed, i feel too bad to write
an hour of feverish agitation
is but ten minutes on the clock. o, endless rain
tonight you’re no sweet lullabye

pale-green deep-green, grey-green, purple-green
spots of poppy-orange and purple-
paper-flower. what happened to the manzanitas?
and then… their charred remains