Southwest red rocks-
golden in sunlight,
in moonlight, black

Halfway between sea
and sheep, in a place
of solace, he considers
the cost of choice. How
choosing might leave

In the spaces
where
dust gathers,
we find
offerings
of sacred debris—

From pelvis to
lifted neck,
a graceful curve.
No limbs or skull.

When Dylan first asked “When
will we ever learn,” I thought
we would. I believed Kennedy
when he told me I could make
a difference. And I saw
Martin Luther King’s dream.

Lips on reed
fingers on keys and
stringed wood
cradled close.

Bivalve shell—
two perfect halves
tightly meeting
edge to edge

The dark
harbors quiet trust

Wind croons through high trees
and joins the tides

quiet sky
my heart
same color

in her sixth year
cabbage palms
and knife fights
replaced
long bike rides