autumn dusk
we sit in the darkness
of each other

charred cedars
how cold the white
of early snow

valentine’s day
the warmth of old love letters
in the fire

silver bells . . .
strands of moonlight
in mother’s comb

in between flashes
the presence of trees
no longer there

whisky i sip it till it loves me

January . . .
loneliness knitted
into a scarf

hospice ward
the click of the door
behind me

drifting rain
a hundred autumn rooms
to be alone

first light
a year after your death
snowdrops

grey day
the granite walls
of the cloistered garden

winter blues
i pour saffron water
over rice

another autumn
the two of us
less visible

late autumn
i learn how to fall 
with grace

funeral
her first journey
alone

winter solitude  
the patterns of snow 
on a cracked window

autumn…
her white chrysanthemums
also died

first hint
of the storm
my call goes to voicemail

your august
my august
barely touching

if a poet
is anybody...
waves on a winter shore

solitary frog
a world of uncertainty
the shape of water

another friend dead . . .
a boy pours tadpoles
into the stream

i wake to the smell
of someone’s sorrow
wildfire

diagnosis
white flowers from
the open window

just when life seems
to make sense
hummingbird eggshell

quiet morning no slug at the end of the slug’s trail

not seeing you grow up bluebell

mother’s day
a nurse unties
the restraints

listening to the grey
between piano keys
. . . late october

late autumn
the butterfly lands
on what’s left

how fragile
our eggshell mind -
moon on water