From April, 2020


beads   there’s hidden stars of bright days, as the tide of arctic   water you no longer see, still their lasting   impermanence  softening your heart; make it just calm enough   just enough beads for a trail to follow their being  as your path low, then   rising like larks  recurring in springs


beads   there’s the moon and the glowing flower cones of the chestnut’s replying there’s the sirens and a blushing arrives where the morning will roll in there’s a birthday you won’t attend touch and laughter you’ll rap in silk and ribbon lay down, next to a box of milk teeth, glass with coltsfoots shopping lists, wish lists receipts and savored place cards a tray of beads and friend’s spare keys; there’s an own life of each thing and a blessing in the innocence among them


beads   there’s the laughing spring sun and the powder of clouds softening the sugar light the haul of traffic reduced and the sirens continuing as a taken city’s wailing (her) cubs or lost children’s calling everyone in hiding, families in their pods, bellies to back or left entirely for second homes then there’s you and others, as broken beads mending our shape in splendid quietness 


beads   there’s the pull and the doubt the hight tide of wanting to leave and the low tide of wishing to stay there’s the hours as beads pushing against each other  their weight against your skin and the nearly painful pleasure  wearing them to bare oneself, in time becoming  your bow


beads   pinõn and blue jay ants and rabbits  are visiting this morning  they’re there before you open your eyes when you do their desert fragrance lingers  as a thoughtful gift from friends recognizing  your flickering attention, your childish wailing as plain  homesickness;    beads of sap slowly solidifying   dripping from your branches 


beads   these are the last days before work close in these are the days before being confined again what will you do? —what did you do as it all turned upside down work evaporate and confinement inverts  with ambulances sailing our vacant streets birds singing them onwards, towards the water the whale’s mouth waiting wide open at the  harbor swallowing hundreds a day her eye, a dark bead  of glowing maternal recognition as she bless their return and grants them her quieting