Outside

a web of branches
finer than any spider could weave
sways raindrops like party lights,
or fireflies, light trapped
in the shining bulbs.

She has trimmed the window
with lilac and lace,
furnished with chestnut timber
glowing like fire coals.

Still the edges of the mirror
are kissed with ice.

Two Chamber Heart

She had a womb
shaped like a heart.
Two chambers
divided against themselves,
conquered
by a fetal echo
but unable to release the child
when full term turned.

A scalpel drew the escape,
hand of man,
flesh of man,
encased in rubber,
cut a path. She thought,

if she had thought
to cover flesh with rubber
in the first place,
she would never have needed.

The Passing of a Mountain

Thick folds of gold brocade
cover the stone altar
like skirts of foothills
around the base of a mountain.

A cloth of white overlays,
opened fold by fold. Choirboys
amass later in the day, frocked
in snowy surplice, their voices soar

like eagles above iced peaks
to fill ceiling vaults carved
by hands that shaped wood and stone
to worship the cathedral of nature.

Queen and God and everyone
have gathered to remember Sir Ed.,
But he has returned to the top of the world
riding his updraft through the thin air.

49er

Time is a factor:
winter comes, silky
with the speed of dark.

Teeth grow muddy with age
as hinges of limbs rust
and grind glassy edges.

Oriental flowers bloom
from the walls,
despite frost blades
spiking the lawn.

The slight arc of winter sun
makes its 49th zenith
in my birthday sky,

and I
am feathered,
glistening,
in my nest.

?

there's a continual tracery
of butterflies in the air

and no matter how
she styles her hair

it falls back into patterns
it has always made