Loving matters
more than
being loved.
Foreshadows
Jamaica Plain, July 2009
Tonight belongs to grieving.
There’s no more in between.
Evening’s light is leaving.
My son unlocks the screen.
I do not beg them stay.
They must be on their way.
The sun will run its course
and leave me here tonight.
It shoulders no remorse,
nor is my son contrite.
Assured and passing through,
they both have work to do.
I’ll wait here in the dark.
My traveling days are done.
Tonight, the sky is stark.
There’ll be no midnight sun.
Grief’s countenance is stern,
not easily unlearned.
Where Two or Three Are Gathered. . .
After Anne Porter (1911-2011)
A breeze breathes in and out the screen tonight.
A pearl of moon hangs just above
the maple leaves and spreads its quiet light
across my desk where copies of your poems
lie strewn, my favorites annotated.
A glass of pinot noir has left a stain
on page sixteen. Irreverent. Intimate.
I can see you, Anne, squinting to study
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