Up Doe Run
This homemade house
is up to its windowtops
in jewelweed.

The hay rake
has started to rust

And there is no one
to hear coonhounds
sing like dark angels.

The air is empty
of scythe blades.

All my losses
have become
a fly
on a screen door.
Long Branch
I remembered rocks can speak.
Now they call me from the path.

Crows laugh from high tree crowns,
trunks give comfort like a mother.

In this ratty park, stones
of the creek bed still teach patience

And the white stallion wheels
in air, then touches down.