What are you?

Because the Bronx
is getting a public observatory,
and the dome will sing lullabies

to the reservoir and field in
the dark. Because another long-armed

poem sweeps in and around
all those dusty corners
and tenuously dangling

webs in search
of a true connection.

Because beyond the river
and sloping woods
behind an airport. Because

you can’t get there from here,
and the bridle path taunts

us from the other side.
Because shadows scour
graffiti-drenched concrete

beneath the overpass without
erasing a thing. Because cooler air

coming through the passage
after the aroma of spring
defines the last day

in January. Because it won’t last.
Because our trees

could become confused—
roots waking up,
branches leafing out

too early. Because
it’s February now,
and these apple slices

must be eaten before
they turn brown. Because

the falsework will rot soon,
and it will be time for you
to show me what you’ve got.

Because I used to be
merely a gully with a dream.

And what remains
of the ice lanterns
in the front yard.

Because the kiln takes its time
powering down. Because

how do you do

that thing you do?
Because a freight train

heads southwest as I wind
my way northeast. Because
I have Romeo

beside me. Juliet is no longer
leaning on you. Because falling

is not an option. Because
cement, cardboard, ceramic
tiles tucked securely inside

each car rattling by.
Because who am I

to question you
with my mudslide
tendencies? Because the devil’s

backbone is razor sharp.
Because the stars

can be seen in the city at night.

I am very honored to have my poem “The Last Time” published in the Addiction issue of Contemporary Verse 2 (CV2).

The moon startles me again.
How it hovers
above the prairie
in the middle
of a January afternoon.

How it hangs
like a faded paper
lantern left over
from an illumination night
festival held at the end

of some summer last century.
You will never be my bride
of the patron saint

of 101 chances. I will
never be the rock
that keeps the door ajar
just enough. I will never give
myself a break

in the darkness. No, I will break
a glass to relieve the tension
between dormant wisteria vines
and the pedestrian bridge
they dangle over. I don’t want

to know what will happen
when the lake ice-in
and ice-out dates

clash, overlap, dissolve.
When the moon refuses
to rise and the thin places
disappear into the seam
between never and ending.

Finally, some negative degrees °F
(windchill double digits below zero)
to resume Minnesota winter bragging rights.

Weeping willows drape their bare
golden vine veils in sweet sadness.
They don’t scrape the cool blue sky

the way neighboring columnar red maples
reach upward to tickle
stray clouds. The eyes

of paper birches peer through
white bandages without giving away
what they see after dark.

You want to know what’s inside
those mysterious wooden crates
laying beside the finally frozen lake.

A rainbow of canoes, stacked
in their racks without a current purpose,
hovers around a bend in the trail.

Whittled from a 20-foot,
wind-damaged bur oak trunk,
the Lake of the Isles #2 pencil

sculpture leans but refuses
to fall. All that’s left
of a 180-year-old tree.

You’ve layered up and are ready

to meet the weather
poets in their secret crystalline den
above the roots and ridge.

It’s that time of year: deflated
Santas on brown lawns. A mob
of wild turkeys blocks the trail.

Clapping gloved hands, you begin
to shoo them away.
Some putt and scatter

into the street, stopping traffic.
A woman walking towards you asks
through a bared-tooth smile:

“Are you trying to kill them?”
“Why, yes, I am. You’re next. Now git,”
you want to reply.

You keep quiet though.
This is Minnesota, if looks could
kill, and other cliches

cling to the ice
precariously covering
the southern lakeshore.

The lake struggles to freeze
and stay frozen.
Patches of cold black
water hemmed in by plates

of gray ice partially covered
by a fresh coat of snow. I cannot hold
the monochrome transition
in my gloved hands. Wild ice

spiders spread their darkest-ink
mystery as river maps
to consult before asking:
thick or thin?

It begins with runs
along icy trails around
the Chain of Lakes.
I capture shifting views
of two bird sanctuaries
in the center of Lake of the Isles.

A beach walk at civil twilight
on Mother’s Day with a friend
I’ve known more than 40 years
reveals a seam
of shadowy dunes on one
of the Outer Banks’ barrier islands.

Almost losing my own mother
a month later,
I now mail her
a letter every Sunday
so she can build her own holm
of endangered species stamps:

from the Nashville crayfish,
piping plover, Mississippi
sandhill crane, and Key Largo cotton
mouse to the black-footed ferret,
golden-cheeked warbler, and
Florida panther. Speaking of large cats

(not the big roaring kind),
a cougar roams city neighborhoods
after dark in search of a territory island
to call his own. He barely makes it
through the Quaking Bog before
a violent encounter with an SUV ends it all.

Summer is for logging 40,000 steps
down and up the island among islands:
New York City. Side bar trips
to Roosevelt Island and Little Island
and an island of true song
created by Son Volt

one jubilant July evening
with the same friend I accompanied
to their first show
at the 7th Street Entry.
Every song on Trace perfect today
as it was in 1995.

A second trip to Cleveland
is for celebration only
when my niece weds her soul mate,
filling an old barn
to the brim
with their own island of love.

A quick stay in DC to explore AI
and not one island in sight,
authentic or not. The year passes
without a chance to visit my first island.
And I know the Vineyard
isn’t going anywhere.

Turning 60 requires its own
accumulation of rocks
and other fluvial
sediment. I mark the moment
by playing hooky from daily life.
I spend a night

at the Nicollet Island Inn,
so I can wake up on one
of the few inhabited islands
in the Mississippi River, once
a sacred Dakota birthing place.
I look out the window

to watch the river channel flow
beside a bank covered in
freshly fallen snow. I walk
the full circumference
of the island as a tourist
in my own town just for a day.

As I wait for a freight train
to pass, temporarily severing
the northern tip from the rest
of the island, I remember
no matter what else happens
“the rhythm of the river will remain.”

Note: The poem ends with a line from Jay Farrar’s song “Live Free.”

I am honored to have my poem “How to Build Your Own” included in the “Hot Water” issue of the literary journal Free the Verse.

You can read the poem here.

When the French Canadian groundhog
died while hibernating in its den,
its unseen shadow slipped
into the winter night

without a sound.
Then mine and yours
disappear too
into a shroud of clouds

blanketing a stretch
of overcast days.
In the vicinity
of a half-frozen lake,

giddy shouts echo
from a grove
of nearly bare
tamarack trees.

A few stubborn
golden needles
dangle from branches
above a cluster of wild

shadows

detached from their objects.
Finally the subjects
of their own stories,
they cut a hole in the ice

to make a swimming trough.
Diving into the darkness,
they create their own action
without having to tend

to the reaction.
Let them
have their moment,
you whisper.

Mostly human
silhouettes (and one or two
with tails) dart in
and out of the water.

Just as dusk descends, I turn off
all the lights, switch on
my rust-

colored Italian table lamp
to the lowest level
of warm glow.

It whispers to me:
“Let me shift
your mood to one of calm

that breeds trust.”

“How?” I ask. Silence.
The room still. Music
no longer lulling me

into a false sense
of urgency. Angry voices
in my head come unplugged.

My crepuscular fingers float
to the smooth surface before me.
Words with no ulterior motive

flicker as reflections
on the nearby bookcase.
Beautifully illegible.

Nothing more needs to be
said. The night is fully
charged. The dead cougar’s body

is being stuffed and will be
on display soon to educate us all
about happier endings

without SUVs on highways
or territory loss.
It will snow again.