Dear Mom

There’s a hurricane coming.
Before the rain begins,

I’ve cut some rudbeckia for you—
I found a few faint coneflowers, too.

but most everything else has passed.

I arranged them just now
in an old glass bottle
like the ones you collected.

The wind is picking up and
the birds are calling.

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Every once in a great while, something emerges. I suppose it happens quite often. Every once in a great while, I notice.

A Winter’s Vacation

A long day apart
followed by another
will make these tender ones remote —

but late at night
passing an upstairs window
and caught by the moon
as it mingles with the dim street lamp,

I will pause,

and notice the overlapping snowshoe paths
behind the house,
evidence of our time together.