poem a today

OF THE FARM

Clouds ambling in the sky above my father,
whose back, dark with sweat, hovers over
the field like a period, far from the road where
my mother and I, kicking up slow, lazy dust
clouds of our own, drive back from church.

The sun on my face is a baptism, the mint melting
to nothing in my mouth, a communion.
The mechanical cacophony of the riding mower,
only a hum in the distance: some hymn
whose words have been long forgotten.

poem a sometimes

WALKING IN WINTER

The clouds all swollen with snow
and leaf-smoke in the air,

Firelight through the trees
like candles in a vigil,

The darkness covering us gone
heavy with things unsaid,

But each breath hovers, drifts,
like some minor cloud, and

There is no sound so rich
as your voice saying my name.