Not a Bread Maker

This spring, unlike any other.

A searcher rests in the nick of time.

Lately, the sun breaches and retreats after days of colder rain.

Mourning coos, cardinals, and young chipmunk chirps.

The dog and I stare at the dead oriole, neither one of us knowing what to do.

What part of death isn't my fault really?

My hair moves in the wind, waving to the bracken.

Now I no longer read out of hunger or need; beauty is its own melty finish.

She is right: it's not the relationship that thins the veil – it's how we hold the common ground.

The new moon opens the doorway.

Walk through to stay in place.

For three nights, an exacting pulse dices the darkness: 12 am – 3 am – 6 am . . .

And over tea, I realized that I am a soup maker, not a bread maker.

Being in love with bread is not the same as loving flour on your fingertips.

Ah, but soup!

A requiem that I never chose speaks on my behalf.

life lingers
and is also