Red River Girl

363/365

New
vii.

Why do you insist on
turning inward? Branches
curving in the wrong
directions. Limbs
growing heavy until you are hard
to move.

At night we share
an armchair rest. Swaying with
the trains.

The newest leaves
are heart-shaped, green like Spring
and shiny.

Why do you insist on
turning inward?

360/365

New
vi.

The director of IT is
Requesting a password.

Pretending
To ask permission.

Applying service pack 10
Point 6
Point 3,
To the new version
Of me,

Now available
For download.

347/365

Gifts
ii.

These are words…

I found in a box.
By the back door.
Just outside a notebook.
Next to the tracks.
Still believing they could fly.

These I kept under my pillow.

These I kicked out.
Erased.
Let go.
By the side of the road.

These I buried.
Watered.
Transplanted in an
Unsuspecting dream.

346/365

Gifts
i.

Everything you give away
I gather…

Green twine.
Red flower pots.

Polish for
The scruffy souls.

345/365

December
v.

Even in
Winter.
Flowers bloom.

345/365

December
iv.

For the places that never
grow old.

For the secrets you never
told.

Oh for the curves and
the dips and
the swerves
and the pull of
outside and
the switch-back and
climb and the
curve

in the curves
of the road.

342/365

December
iii.

Everything afire.
Wild geese
Chasing where you kiss.

341/365

December
ii.

There you are.
Waiting for
the floor to dry.

Sweeping everything but need
away.

And sweeping.

339/365

December
i.

Waking you to watch
first snowflakes.
Winter’s fire flies.