The look he has is youthful
And the cap is tilted back;
The face is slender, wistful,
A boy sent to attack.
 
My children in another room
Are talking with their friends
Of who likes whom and what
Comes next, and how to make amends.
 
Across a corner of the frame
Is draped a purple band
He never saw, but Grandma
Left imprinted on her hand.
 
My young son runs in, all afresh
With news from our back lawn;
I hear the crack and feel the burn;
The ache goes on and on.
 
 
 

I have not been all that serious lately
About eternity.
Perhaps I should be,
Given this transitory moment,
The inevitability of reverse. 

Still, eternity is too long for me. 
I’d just as soon sit with a grandson, 
Talking about flight, play catch with
My granddaughter’s eyes,
Build things:

Railroad tracks, cranes, towers
Of small, smooth wood pieces
In primary colors; 
Race plastic and cast metal cars
Toward the edge of the table. 

Time is not eternity. I can wait. 
I think I will know from them, 
My grandchildren, 
Eyes clear, hearts full, 
Nothing to lose. 

 

Making rounds follows
The highways 
Of persons; turnoffs,
Overpasses, structural
Modifications,

The wind whistling
Down the gut
With no one listening
Despite contractions tinkling
And crackling from the

Heat of molecules
Jostling in
Some way called alive
And in another way dead,
As having driven

Into new country. 





In: Journal of Pastoral Care vol. 41, 1987.
Reprinted in Group Practice Journal copyright 1987, 
American Medical Group Association (AMGA).

We passed a windowed spa
Near the food court in the mall.
A pastel-gowned woman wearing plastic gloves
Anointed the outstretched arm
Of another woman, who looked away
Out the window,
At us.

What would be the message?

We walked on,
Spent our day
Uselessly.  

In Spring, of all seasons the most cunning,
Cold sunlight first sharpens itself
Screeching on black rocks delivered between
Snow patches;
Then, wrestling us musty to the ground in
Windy rain through thrashed-clean clouds,
It pierces our decaying flesh with
Chartreuse shoots of praise.
 
 
Published in North Coast Review (MN), Jun 2003
 

You could at least have worn a hat
Visiting your brother in this cold!
Part of your scalp got left
On a headstone and I must
Pull this wound together with
Its stiff white hairs. 
Even in February, six sleepers weren’t 
Enough for you to snuggle into. 
Another day, ready for your people, 
You might have entered the woods 
To seek them and let the cold take you. 
As it is, people saw you go down
And well-meaning brought you to this
Warm room
With its blue walls
And strange family. 

                               
             

          In Minnesota Medicine 1990;73(2):25

So, I’m looking at my shoes,
Mouths open, nothing to lose,
And realize that if I
 
Step into them,
I am in their life,
Laced, leathered, ready.
 
Maybe I will just
Walk away barefoot,
Give this some thought.

Or

The earth will not turn

Balloons will not rise

Elm sap will fail

Eggs will not crack

Paramecia will still

Clothes will stay wet on the line

We ate dinner, the four of us,
Watching moonrise through the trees:
Large, chalky round-edged patches
Through still-leafed limbs.
 
Someone pointed out the time.
Someone else noticed the moon had been
Sliced off on its eastern side.
We went to the lake,
 
Steadied ourselves into the boat,
Sat there waiting.
We’re older now, good at waiting.
No one said much.
 
Oh, maybe a few things,
Like, it’s the Earth getting in the way, isn’t it
And, you can just make out the dark of the
Already-eclipsed part.
 
The blood didn’t amount to much.
It was more coppery, the way plumbing and
Telephone wires used to be.
The moon has been at this a long time.
 
Maybe blood is too strong a word.
The thing is, when it was blood,
The moon showed itself.
We could see everything.