the glimmer glitter confetti effect

the glimmer glitter confetti effect
of bits of snow
coming down
in the bright light
of my headlamp beam
a porch pause to listen/hear it-
the little frosty bits- drifting down,
touching tree branches and porch slats and earth and each other
the cat tracks on the short forest path
fresh on fresh snow
that covers the tracks i left
only a half hour ago
needle poking into the fine weave of fabric
how i pull it pulling light pink thread through
rocking needle over under over
with both hands
and drawing it through
stitch by stitch
this is my thumbprint
from the water world:

all i can say is
i am so sorry, saltwater crocodile
i’m quite certain it’s not my tire,
but it is a symptom of our collective affliction
that should have nothing to do with you
but there you are yanked
by our recklessness

A saltwater crocodile with a tire around its neck is seen in Palu river in Palu, Indonesia. – voice of america, day in photos


with each swift stop

the sound
of blades on ice
shaving its surface
with each swift stop
while coverall-suited players
take cracks at the puck
and the calls and whoops too
from the water world:

Men pour cold water over themselves during the annual cold water endurance ceremony, to purify their souls and wish for good fortune in the new year, at the Kanda Myojin shrine in Tokyo, Japan. – voice of america, day in photos

love hard, grieve hard

the thinnest layer of snow
plus air so cold
it crunches in that certain
single digit temperature
kind of way
raw quesadilla she jokes
about the unheated corn tortilla
with the unmelted cheese
folded in

the joke awards we’d win:
me: best parlor game player in the universe
lisa: hottest body
jennifer: fastet thinker
joel: best non louisianna-dwelling white zydeco accordion player

tamara laughing about
the camo teddy in wyoming
you wouldn’t be able to see me she says
without a safety orange hat on

been swinging this heart hinge open all my life i say
i love hard, i grieve hard

she was like the ocean i say
too unpredictable and me
wanting too much to be her/like her

the teaspon of coconut oil turning
from waxy white and solid to 
shiny melty
in my palm
from the water world:

Children transport drinking water in a village devastated by flash floods in Pansor, Salvador town, Lanao del Norte, in southern Philippines. – voice of america, day in photos

in the mirror of river

the medicine pack
(a ziploc with decongesting pills, toe warmers, probiotic packets and lozenges)
that my sister hands me
when she appears in the door
to transport me to the train station
and how this is just the kind of gesture
that makes me feel deeply cared for
the bridge over the mississpi
whose design of three not-white-but-not-gray arches
(two small arches on either end and one in the middle)
reflects itself back
in the mirror of river
whose edges are unreflective and in pieces
of ice
at the river edge in la crosse
where it is almost too cold to be at a river edge
though the ducks in the unbelievably cold water
(complete with little ice islands floating through)
don’t seem to mind
we both think the white stuff they’ve got in their mouths
is some kind of plastic or styrofoam
before we realize
with relief
that the white is the bellies
of small shiny fish
and then there’s the eagle
swooping over them
not hunting the ducks so much as
getting a rise out of them

the surprise
in the office
at Real Human Headquarters™
under the banner that reads welcome, homo:
a hot pink desk
complete with a unicorn temporary tattoo in the drawer
(plus post-its and tape and notecards)
and the emotionary (a dictionary of words that don’t exist for feelings that do)
and to round it all out: a kneely chair

which, not that i believe in absolutes, might just be
the best surprise to ever exist on planet earth
in chinese medicine, the lungs are associated with grief she says
to which i respond (jokingly), weird, i don’t have any of that


the sunset something

sans gloves, i
pull the sleeve layers long
over my hands
the vertebrae, the thin ribs
of gibbous, the incredible shrinking cat
defined and almost sharp under my palms
as i scoop him up
the ice in the tire track pressed into the dirt road
that i crack with my tennis-shoe’d toe
and the ice in the intermittent stream
whose shades and shapes form
around the big rocks scattered
the bald eagle gliding close enough (thirty feet?)
that i don’t have to squint to make out
if that is indeed a white head and white tail i see – 
it is, indeed, without a doubt
i reserve the question mark
for the other two or three along the way
that could have been red tailed hawks
or juvenile bald eagles
up on slater’s hill and along
county line road

the possum
looking at me looking at it
in daylight
scampering slow off into 
the woods
and me, redirecting jack the jack russell’s attention
to keep
the peace
the kitchen clock
once again silenced:
pulled off the wall from above the sink,
battery adjusted so no contact
is made

the sunset something peach
(sorbet, perhaps)
along horizon

maybe the mistyness

thwapping in the wind
high above on electric pole
(one with a mini transformer or something on it at the top – cylandrical)
the broken down body
of what i thought was a squirrel
but it’s not even body it’s just skeletal clump with fur/wing attached linked to skeletal clump with fur/wing attached
thinking it must be bird,
its skull thwaping against the wood pole in the breeze
which is the sound that caused me
to look up
how i tell myself to stop
and take in the shimmer
coming off the pond in the pasture by the train bridge
so i do
breathe deep and take in the dazzle
the telltale skin and head to one side of the road in the ditch of a small unmoving stream
and ribcage to the other
a deer was hunted here
it is a country? song
called female 
by keith urban or something like that
how it brings tears to my eyes
because it is the first song i’ve heard presumably written and sung by a man
on mainstream radio
simply saying something along the lines of: 
women – respect the shit out of them they are life and they are sacred 
and maybe the mistyness is because of this first-timeness
and/or maybe the mistyness is his timing 
the victory of finishing
the third ever willow woven basket i’ve ever made
and the first i’ve ever made myself (with the help of some major phone consulting)
sans handle
something about its shape
like a cone one holds up to their ear
or something satellite-dish about it
tilted to take in
sound and wind

from the desert i am

mats rolled out on cistern
sun on our fabric-ed limbs
we settle
we bend and stretch

clippers in our hands
we walk along the fabius riverbed – the dry parts that go underwater when torrents of rain flush down gathering willow
(reds, gold-browns and gold-greens)

minus a kingfisher call here and there
and the occasional car rolling across the overpass,
the quality of stillness/quiet
all while the sun folds around 
feels like a direct import
from the desert i am missing
this winter


bald eagle
twenty feet up
wings spread
body sailing
and a sngle downy feather
fluttering from sky to riverbed
where we walk

sole and i and one for mahogany too
pulling four letter words from the blue glass knuckle tatt jar
and coming up with things like
tall jazz
leaf buoy
buzz rock

the rhythm the three of us get into
with the plastic and slats and screws and drills and staple guns
sealing up each window against
the cold snaps approaching


the almost-oranging light hitting the lemonyellowing maple leaves
on the cool ranch tree as we gather up the weatherizing tools from the porch of varying stablenesses
including the drill with the precariously loose bit