“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


the weekend and all there was

did they wrap it up
was there a bow
did someone hold her finger
right there
in the middle
while someone else pulled the ribbon
which was the poet?
which was the poem?
the finger
the ribbon
the pull?
was there a box please say no.

there was only the small stuff of days:
three crows saturday overhead chasing
one moth wing torn silver side shimmering
two feathers striped trampled still singing

there was only standing witness to the last breaths of another moth,
creamy wings striped with orange,
final flutters in the shade of the magnolia tree.
there was only the first baby owl of the season
perched in a knothole shaped like a heart,
if you viewed it from the exact right spot.
there was only a sunset eclipse hiding behind the trees.

there was only this sign and a wounded tree,
weeping sweet sap onto the street.



  1. this is poetry, and it is a gift.

    and there was no box. ever.

    1. i thought of you when i typed this. :) there was never a box.

  2. Now I really like this one.
    Oh to notice the little things and celebrate them.

  3. *The Last Love Poem*
    is a never ending poem
    with a cachet scent
    of her warmth
    on a humid
    starlight night
    two hearts
    are tied together
    in a never ending Love.

  4. Oh, I do love this one. You know I do.


come. sit under the emma tree & let's talk. i have cookies . . .