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North At Fifty-Three

Those Trees

Trees

New neighbors, the sack of Rome, a treehouse in the Cascade Mountains

Bubble-Boggled

Native Tongue

The trail had become steeper, winding past low trees and tall, dry grasses. Here and there were patches of snow. I tried to gauge how far there was to go, but rock outcroppings blocked the view: I couldn’t tell whether we were nearing the peak or merely coming to a change of grade.

Imagination Itself

Driving Home

Leaving one son; going toward the other. Ted and I take turns driving, three hours each. My break comes at lunchtime. Then I can sit in the car and count the hawks in the sky.

Poems After Rumi

Fisher’s Ridge

Bindwater

Why the sisterhood had to build this pain in, with the Power always skipping a generation, the mothers and daughters always a loss to one another, she didn’t know. She had yielded to it until Annabelle became pregnant. Then, something with the fineness and power of a spiderweb had drawn the young woman, along with her husband, back to the neighborhood where she was born.