The Holy Family?
In a box
with the angels upstairs

Shepherds?
In search of their sheep
lost in newspaper

Somehow I sit on a bag...
     of glass Christmas *****
“Must get my vacuum!”
That dead animal, coated by dust
and buried in laundry--
has tangled itself in its own cord
and tumbled headlong to the basement

Crooked photos of daughters
watch me...
smiling (Can it be?)
from a hundred miles and years away?
Waiting for me to make
that miracle again--
What moms do at Christmas

Phone rings
    “Jing-a-ling, are ya listening?”
     It's the bill collector's recorded
     “This is inexcusable!” message
      Charities are legion
      I say, “There is a line”

Later--
seen only by the peaceful stars...
the donkey of Bethlehem
stumbles in-- laden with groceries
dumping them on the bed/couch
...and back outside for the next load
...and back to the bed again
Why bother making it?
Not as if the cat cares
He likes his blankets niched and lumpy
Not as if some modern home magazine's
planning a photo-shoot!

The mailbox, meanwhile
is preggers  with glossy catalogues
...and bills...and
“Wouldn't your whole family enjoy a sunroom?”

Dropping the bags
searching for a light
turning up the heat--
     gas bill
     sewer bill
     “Tis the season for a new Toyota!”
I try to understand the point
of a Christmas card with printed signature
Can I stuff myself in with the recycling?

Then, back outside for the single-woman drama
     “Hauling in the Tree”
Storm door catches the hem of my coat
Pine needles, leaves, snow and mud
mark the end of the trail

On my belly twisting screws
       “Son-of-a-******* tree stand!”
Knocking my daughter's picture off the wall
       “Serves 'er right fer laughin!”
**** thing's crooked and dripping
with melted snow

It's 8:30 PM

The cat is hungry and crying
I hit the bottom-- and the button
for the background of a human voice
Three naked chickens are waiting on the counter

At some point, I will take off my coat...

Right now--
I drink a beer while standing

To get a better view....

transparent seeds
nest in winter hollows
the future reflected
in all-knowing eyes
an internal compass buried
in each golden heart

dappled forest light
on the natal stream
memories of salt
ingrained within
the latent lure
of open ocean

our destinies are silver
a return to clear waters
transformed revenants
glassy-eyed and gasping
on the gravel bed
that birthed us

The source of words
is the very source
of human thought.

If we are to under-
stand one another,
we must find the source
of our words.

The sources of
our streams of consciousness
are as varied as nature;
from the highest pinnacles
to the bowels of the earth.
The nature of the sources
matters little.
The highest may be polluted;
the purest flow may come
from the deepest spring.

Recognizing our own source
is essential
when our streams merge.
Our thoughts commingle,
and still remain our own.
In the foaming tumble
over the boulders
of daily living,
it is well to remember
our innermost selves,
like the river,
need the aeration
of an outlet and a
                                few
                            ­           deep
                                                breaths.

On­ce we have come
to our under-
standing,
we need not remain
below those we now
stand under.

(the beauty of words
is the very beauty
of human thought)

it never occurred to him,
not even late in the light of day,
he had paid scant attention
to birds

he heard the mourning doves
and saw a black ****** of crows scavenge
for crumbs at his feet at the outdoor cafe;
a crimson cardinal caught his eye, once

but most days he looked little
to the skies, and couldn't tell a wondrous warbler
from a fine finch--vultures and eagles were the same:
carrion eaters, high flyers

this, his avian compendium complete,
save hummingbirds he recalled outside his kitchen window
as a child, when his mother would bake bread
and fill the feeder with sugar water

the buzzing birds had caught his eye, until
his mother passed; then he failed to feed the tiny flock;
where they went he did not know, for he had little
wonder where winged creatures go

the moon
clothed in pearl grey clouds
sits high upon the sky
as the tides sings an ode
to it's beauty


the air still,
then zephyrous
dances with dust and motes
in the street lamps reflection

dampness sizzles and steams
on old tar roads, puddles erupt
as cars swing  on through
dragon lights on high beam
veering off into the night

we sit, drinks in hand
as small things pitter
and patter about
and listen to the deepening
of the warm summer night

Will was drawn to that spot
spirits or not, something-body pulled him there
like a mystic magnet that attracts flesh

and flesh he found in that grove, between
a stubborn hackberry and twisted oak: mother and newborn,
their blood soaking the prairie grasses

he walked the hard mile to the pay phone
passing but one unfriendly ranch house on the way
a growling cur keeping him at bay

the operator connected him
with the sheriff who collected his one deputy
and was there in half an hour

Lord Almighty, Lord Almighty
the deputy kept saying, those chants hanging
in the hot air above the bodies  

while the sheriff checked for pulses,
his khaki pants painted round red at the knees
for he was too old to squat  

neither knew the girl, who couldn't
have been age of consent, but the baby looked pink,
strong, though still as stone

the ambulance couldn't make it there;
the driver and deputy carried them out
on one stretcher

both commenting how light
their fated cargo was, how it was a shame
they perished in that old copse

Will knew that was meant to be
when he found them: the little one first clinging
to a dark warm sea inside

forced out by time, her helpless heaving,
and some invisible hand that took part in all matters
of flesh, spirit and bone

the same hand that did not cradle them
but at least found them shade, a cool but cruel
reprieve from their terse time in the sun

Sweetwater, Texas, 1959