From Worm Moon, American Moons, recently published and available on Amazon
The moon sets wide on water –
I am claimed by flint
close at hand, the scent
of matted oak leaves.
Roots and reeds, always
the same slow ache of waking.
Loosed from aspen, spokes
of ice pierce the grained snow.
Grey hour breaks and shadows
blanch. Day patterns the sky –
a spendthrift wind unsettles.
Crow knows, heavy
on the topmost branch,
his call cleans the whole sky.
stirs in the walls. I wipe a milk
spill from the table. Gulls circle
above the chimney ventilators.
My husband, my friends’husbands,
have walked to work. I listen
to the radio gossiping. Over linoleum
squares, the children drive
their trucks to market. I face
the fire escape’s wrought iron march
down bricks across the way. Napkins
toss in the dryer, wind blown clouds.
I have let go of my job, the fashion
desk, my typewriter stored safe
on ordered shelves with Mother’s silver
to be set out if occasion calls.