Every summer it happens—It happens that I become paralyzed,Paralyzed, that is, with the decisionAs to which of my girlsTo nickname “Peach.”The paralysis stems from the considerationThat each one is worthy,And to a verifiable extent:Dear to my heart,Locally sourced,As fresh as summer dew,With a hint of tartness,Rosy as the dawn,And a sublime companion to waffles. JulyContinue reading “Peaches”

The Desk of My Daughter

The desk of my daughterAt the window facing westIsn’t cleared before dinnerDespite her mother’s behest. A clean desk would be(Though it’s never been seen)A surface that’s flat,Polished, shiny, and clean. But much like the worldOn the Out side of the pane,The girl at the deskNever stays just the same. She’s constantly growing,Thinking, changing, creating.The worldContinue reading “The Desk of My Daughter”

Gray November

Like the first few flakes of snowOn the leaves of rusty brownAre the first gray hairs to showIn the beard beneath my frown.Snow is “early” in November,And I feel too young for gray—But then again I can’t remember What my face felt like clean shaved.One by one the flakes compoundAnd still Fall’s rustling with a hushWhileContinue reading “Gray November”

Broome Street

The streetlight aspires to a small role on Broadway,And the traffic cop fancies that he was born king.The pigeons peck pennies and wish at the fountain,To trade their anxieties for songs they can sing.The taxi cab wishes that he was a tugboat,The dockbuilder whistles and dreams he’s a bird.While only the poet—and just for oneContinue reading “Broome Street”

The Aster and the Goldenrod

I asked the crimson Sassafras For a mittened helping hand. “I must bring autumn home,” I said To the yellow Maidenhair. But the Sassafras just smiled and sighed That he had other plans. And that Ginkgo giggled down the lane And left my basket bare. … I hiked the blazing mountains ‘Neath the Maples’ ringContinue reading “The Aster and the Goldenrod”