string lake, wyoming
Below the
staggered peaks
of the Tetons,
swathed today
in cloud,
this green
shallow lake
is on its way
to becoming
a meadow—
flowers waiting
somewhere
in the future,
yellow and blue,
the way words
waited once
along the primeval
shores
of language.
traveling light
I'm only leaving you
for a handful of days,
but it feels as though
I'll be gone forever—
the way the door closes
behind me with such solidity,
the way my suitcase
carries everything
I'd need for an eternity
of traveling light.
I've left my hotel number
on your desk, instructions
about the dog
and heating dinner. But
like the weather front
they warn is on its way
with its switchblades
of wind and ice,
our lives have minds
of their own.
terminal
For every departure
there is an arrival.
It is the law of the axe
whose handle was a tree.
It is the secret
the fire caves in upon
whose smoke disappears
along its own trail.
The leaves push off again—
a whole fleet of small sails
and no one knows where they land.
Children wave from train windows
their years growing heavy
on their backs.
But somewhere a cloud is forming
that will flower here
in petals of snow,
and light from a star
that started towards us
a million years ago
arrives at last.