To Wind in Lonely Fences

A hot dry summer
Afternoon
A maelstrom of dust
In light shafts

He drips cool water
Slowly
In the gully
Between her ribs
It pools in her navel

He inserts his tongue
It overflows
In rivulets down her sides
She shivers

A Tree Falls

Sheets wafting in the wind
Of cold rain
Hillsides blanketed
In mauve chenille
Acid green covers
Ground and solitary trees
White filigree stands out
In isolated tufts
I’ve made my bed

A Trace

I'd count the hours
Until ninety-six
And exasperated with arithmetic
I'd count the days
Then the week
And the days
And then the weeks
Until at most six
And rejoice
At some faint trace
The reward for my patience
And thank something
For this slim glimmer

Homework

My son
Thinks of four lines
To translate
For French class
My Mother
She is very patient
She has olive eyes
She is very nice
She has gray hair

It's Spring, Again

It's all I can do
To contain my hysteria
At the first sign
Of pale purple wisteria