SCARS OF WINTER
An artist’s brush has whisked away gems
of autumn – rubies, topaz fading to fragile
khaki that cracks in the breeze.
The last stalks
of goldenrod sway, browning flowers
crumbling into the fields.
Spring, summer, fall have come and gone –
a year since you left. Winter echoes
in the stark and blossomless wood.
The forest frowns
into the lake, and flakes write white, light music
on the air.
Soon the earth will harden,
drift in robes – an acceptance of snow.
WE’RE SORRY TO HAVE TO TELL YOU
Flushed with moonlight, the yard’s margins
fade, extend to shadows. The gate pivots,
creaks. Footfalls ricochet the path.
Through the window, walls gleam yellow.
A woman scans the clock, placates her baby –
waves a bear, a rattle, a box of raisins.
His cries inflame the night, startle raccoons
as they grope through ruins of the day. The men
pause on the stoop, refuse each other’s eyes.