Winter Poems. It’s a slender volume, and its design is somewhat crude. But what does it matter now? Did it matter then? No. It was a joy to behold, and to see in my mother’s hands. Now I find it on her shelf, between Harper Lee and The Grapes of Wrath. Life is like that. So is death. All is good. Nothing blooms by half.
So Begins December
There’s a conversation
in the next room.
I tiptoe in, find two cups
beside a window
I know was closed.
So begins December,
when even ghosts have bones.
I tiptoe out, the quiet talk resumes.
Songs and Letters, December 1, 2006
Winter Poems, Cosmopsis Books, 2007