Seasoning

Is the air, in and out
of my lungs, part and parcel
to a season’s drift into season?

Where would we be, out of the air?

Having days without weather
foundering, lost like a groundless
facile science, ungodly as a vacuum.

The weather is having us, we’re
in its pocket, under its watch
drumming in its rain, breathing in its
cloudless pomp, adrift in its seasons.

At all times, where we are
it seems to know.

Interdependence

arctic telegram
cold feet under warm blankets
raindrop pings window

from tributaries
oceans receiving rivers
snow drift in sunlight

afternoon thermals
heavier than air on wing
the sky believing

sanderlings darting
exhausted wave collapses
on sleepless shoreline

the water’s language
a library of cloud forms
notes on sea napkins

interdependence
words in light of other words
this buoyed upon that


(Everyone writes Haiku about the weather, but nobody does anything about it.)

Queen Eleven

we breathe, peer from open eyes
unconsciously adding one to the census
while somewhere, another subtracts
catching interests, dodging worries

but nothing stands still

like pond water at seven
after dawn, or the queen of night
winding down to a calm
motionless sheer curtain

saying eleven, so christened
by noisy, jealous clockworks
in silent hallways

That Fucking Moon

refracted in the moondust
saucer round, the light
it comes our way, obey
her, cyclic lunatic
the hounds and wolves
have paced all day
come out, come out
come out and play
but soft what light the
tidepull on your hunger
and your wolven groin
she’s close enough to fuck
with tides and passions
nerves and hormones, luck
to man and beast alike on
land or sea or airborne tern
that fucking moon
we never learn

In honor of this evening’s full moon. Get
out there and sing to her then, shall we?
PgR 10/15/2016

Wisconsin, 2013

kubasta-marina

if it never
changed we wouldn’t
call it weather

in mid-April a bit
of snow falls in
Oshkosh, Wisconsin

I’m here with family
for my mother’s
funeral service

she lived and died
in a way that makes
everything seem okay

I don’t take the
blood line idea
too seriously, though

we like to trace
it back and call it
our own tree

but the outward
branches are nowhere
near the trunk

and we avoid thinking
of the slower, ungainly
creatures at the root

or the chart lines become
increasingly selective
in the foggy distance

we leafy expressions
in an imagined forest
of others, the bothers

our differences
belie our deep connections
and change does

come like unwelcome
weather defying the
same ol’ same old

but if it never
changed we wouldn’t
dare call it life

Winter’s Garage

flower-seedsballs

needy usurper of calendar months
the march bloom cycle and
junefuls of shore bird mays
gamble to a halt in august

rioting ditch flowers gone seedy
novemberlings robotic tic toc
pulling octobertime’s minted evenings
into winter’s garage