There Is No Grey Exactly Like

There is no grey exactly like
that which ocean houses wear
on sunless days.

Salt wind has no business with
these walls we made,
long since cleaned of color by the storms.
Instead, it strips the paint
from beaches, sky, and waves;
and gulls,
dragged like brushes past the clouds,
barely tint the quiet with their toneless brays.

When we are down to grey,
we still have this
shingle, sea, and street,
simple and concrete.
What is left survives.

September 25 2010

Everything Is More or Less

Everything is more or less
back where it belongs.
The summer drought wrought havoc on
the summer lawns
but they are mostly green again.
The structures that we coded still hold flaws
destined to surprise us,
but for at least the weekend they are plausible.
The river's calm is offering
itself to be reflected
in any passer-by.

This present moment, filled with gratitude,
is to be kept,
a scrap of paper
tucked into a pocket.
We are thankful for the ending of the storms
that bent us sideways
and of the tides that tried
to send us out to sea, and at my side
the ancient dog survives,
pulled forward by his nose
though his legs must lag behind.

September 19 2010

She Gave You Her Heart to Hold

She gave you her heart to hold
just for the night,
and in your palm it lay,
a comfort stone,
until the monsters left.

Before you went to sleep
you put it on the table
to keep it from a fall.
How careful is the child
of a mother's given heart.

September 3 2010

Catch and Release

Catch and release
not just your fish;
unhook as well
and let swim free
your finny thoughts.

September 3 2010