birch branch laden with ice

dips heavily to the ground

as the crow alights


A spent dandelion-
One wisp still clinging
to the bald-headed stalk.
I blow again, and a third time…
before dropping it as I walk away.

always my little boy

Ancient black sharpie scribbles
disrupt the shine
of my old oak table.
I smile,
remembering you then.


unintended measures of rests
counted off between us
for someone to speak

tires on the pavement
slushy soft-shoe
our silence with more weight

black birds on the wires
sprinkled notes on a staff
if they could be heard

headlights never quite reaching
close enough to the horizon
to gauge
how far we are to the end

Untitled (for now) 

Just after Christmas

Pussywillows are budding

As if spring has come