on my front stoop

sizing each other up —

two little Batmen

tucked under covers,

feeling a kind of kinship

with the potatoes

the oldest cricket

tells of a long ago storm —

no one believes her

the sweep of its wings

wider even than our gasps —

bald eagle

unsure of ourselves

we check our locks, our pockets —

while the earth waits

early leaf raking —

I try not to look up at

the ones yet to fall

slowing down

to savor the almost-end

of my paperback

over and over
my only thought the next hold
as I reach for it

(Dedicated to Veterans Expeditions (@vetexpeditions)

the baby book we hid

to avoid reading it

for the thousandth time

shorter days —

she calls to ask again

when we might visit

marrow of black trunks
amidst swirling red leaves —
after chemo

that moment

when your leaning in is met

by another’s

the sound of rain

before I recognize it —

different every time

State of Out Youth: A Town Hall

Could I be prouder of my counselee, Paulina Aldaba? Nope. Don't think so.

the tide and the moon

pulling each other on

with fierce devotion

drawn into itself

as it climbs the night sky —

harvest moon

each year, larger than

we can hold in memory —

harvest moon  

“She hid in her clothes,”

her mother says of those years,

and the room goes still

(For our school's celebration of National Coming Out Day, we had a great presentation by one of our teachers and her openly lesbian daughter, who is now in her mid-twenties. This haiku came from the mom's description of the daughter's high school years, when she was still struggling with coming to terms with her sexuality.)

apples by the bag —

the grocery aisles fill up

with dreams of pie

dazzled to tears

and grateful for it —

the setting sun’s light

along the low bridge

teaching each other to fish —

parents and children

cutting back the vines

that grew where they shouldn’t have —

autumn begins

early fall —

inhaling gnats every day

until that first frost

the time and space

between his apology

and my forgiveness

watching younger kin

the old deer hesitates, then

takes the fence in stride

October mornings —

heading back inside to get

another layer

each night that I sit

at the edge of his bed I’m

grateful to be there

second bedroom —

getting used to the same sun

through a new window

home after a trip —

the red maple greets me,

seeming taller

lingering warmth —
each fall, memories of my
first mother-in-law

another warm day —

the squirrels ask each other

"Was last year like this?"

What are the crickets

looking forward to so much

that they can’t sleep?

a boy and his dad

making good time and grinning

no training wheels in sight

every day this week

like putting on jewelry —

slow-rising lake mist