Trying to Make Sense out of Nothing

What is it that makes people write poems? 
It’s nothing you can see or smell, nothing 
You can taste or touch or hear— 

Hidden in the formless recesses of nowhere, 
Whatever it is, it takes all our senses aback 
If and when we coax it out of there. 

Springboard

of stream watching

the green wet 
willows dipping in 
to shallow water deep 
enough you think you are 
seeing things down there where 
the branches you look at look 

to be springing roots! 

Wounded in the Process

no- 

thing too 
in 

significant— 

.

how 

. 

even this small 

sliver 


working it- 
self out, 

heals. 

Unrequited

Had you asked me 
Against all odds 

I’d have been the first 
To answer yes and the last 

To wager I was wrong 
Even from the start. 

Life's Understudy

Moreover 
.
You act as if 
You’re standing 
On a mountain 
.
On top of which 
The lowly mole does not 
Understand your role.