Solstice, Pouvrai

From Hunger Moon, American Moons, recently published and available on Amazon


In the neighborhood
houses loom and lighten slow,
shadow sliding down the yards.
Chimneys breathe against the snow.

Every day I climb the chain
link fence, weaving stanzas.
Shapes bend and figures
interlock in winter dances.

Mice scamper in the wall,
nibble at the raveled hour along
old thoughts, old shell of wasp,
beam suspended like a song.

Panes laced in rhyme – the ice
has hardened – starlings
beat against the window, climb
wing by wing of feathered daring.


You were a language I took
delight in. Some words
laughter – some eager
like the river of your voice.

We walked in Pouvrai’s woods –
I asked for French – la fougere,
le buis, l’argile. We found a stone
cottage, its roof curled like fern.

Inside, a scallop shell
of pilgrimage carved
in the hearthstone.
Mourning doves settled

on that broken stoop
lowing, then scattered –
every strut a hieroglyph.
We could have stayed.

We could have healed
the lintel, reglaxed sunfired
panes, mended the leading.
We might have made do.

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