Death, come to me in the pages of an old book

Death, come to me in the pages of an old book;

In the heavenly breath
Of an old spine.
Take in your hand the sweet and aged dyes,
Of ink and pages turned another breath.
Come to me with the next return,
And of me fill not take.

Haiku Collection

-Red Bird-
Blush beneath wide bone;
I hold my heart with both hands,
No strength for wide strokes

-Yellow Leaves-
Yellow leaves; wanton,
Cling close to branches with their
dead-red rimmed lips.

-Cricket Song-
When low clouds gather,
A cricket in the water
sings of falling things.

-When I Pass the Birds' Bush-
Birds inside the vine
pitch themselves from heights and dive;
chirping for the soul.

-Penny in the Fountain-
Penny in the fountain;
though many hands reach to touch,
you remain solemn still.

-Behind the House Wall-
Behind the house wall,
grass creeps above the wet moor.
This snow melts quiet.

-A Dead Man-
A dead man reaches
up for air, while proud pines wade;
both are cold and still.

Mother Heart

My mother holds out her heart,
and we take it by the rinds;
to bite;
cold and sweet,
picked down to the unstrung bow
we clench with both hands;
bitter and sharp to taste.
We swallow one black seed to grow.

Out in the Cold

A steaming kettle screams from the stove,

Red with the glow of heat; boiling water runs

Down the burning metal; the water streak burns.

The surrounding kitchen fills with morning cold,

All except this small hollow, alive and hot.

Lift, and carry it away with cool and careful hands;

Carry to the table, a clean cloth between your hands

And the scalding bronze. Quietly, the steam drifts off the stove.

A mug waits to be filled to the throat with liquid hot;

Milk poured from the plastic jug, down the steaming surface color runs;

A little heart enclosed in the drink, separate and cold.

With a swallow the mug touches lips and the mouth burns.

A slight touch may rouse the skin to a red burn,

This, the danger in eager and unpracticed hands.

The first grace is followed by a ghost of cold,

Then the scrape ignites beneath the skin as a stove.

Beneath the tap, chilly morning water runs;

This hurt flashes in and out of pain and touch; cold and hot.

Outside the kitchen, past the morning, the hot

Sun leaves its mark on skin as it burns

The leaves to withering gold and teary dew runs. 

Nature holds within herself her own stove;

Just as quick a brush from quick and eager hands,

Can leave the marks that linger in a numbing cold.

Winter opens the cellar door that keeps the cold;

A freeze that whispers its own through hot 

Climates that rage in the flame of a stove.

Yet even comfort in the cold leaves burns

As pink and terse as naked winter hands;

Under that ice a hot river runs.

Away from this feeling of heat, my heart runs,

Out into the air to gather in the cold.

Hidden away in pockets the warmth finds my hands

And as cruel as hate I force them away from this hot

Space; feeling for the numbness after burn.

I can no longer trust the spark of a kitchen stove.

Tears rise from the kettle hot,

The fire catches and rushes beneath the burning stove;

I listen to the kettle scream walk out to the cold.  

Forest of Fontainebleau

A walking stick
In this deep forest,
Thumbs along the earth.
This fallen tree beside you;
Wide enough to wrap your arms around
And not reach halfway.
Perhaps you will,
When the picture-taker has closed his eyes
To rest,
Reach around and hold;
Drag your legs to climb
Over; your heart feeling its
Beats against the wood.
Let the cane fall,
To roll and lie still
Beside a jagged cut friend.
You need this too;
In this deep forest,
Where you walk
With no one else near.

Milkmaid of Popindrecht

A dutch flower in one corner,
A chain lying in the other.
You stand between these things;
Above the dirt
And behind the hay.
You stand above the chain
And tarnished brass bellies;
Dangling one jug copper
Just barely in numb hands.
In your eye I see the paint crack;
These awkward fingers clamping the hip,
Jutting out.
A headdress with gold bangles
Enveloping your pale face;
These are not a milkmaid's.
Slant your hips,
And look away
From this,
Down on a patch of
Earth.
This is not the milkmaid,
But the sultan in the sun;
Desperate for a drop
To fall,
And gouge,
And clean,
Until the smell of paint
Carries no more
On the hands of flowers.