Dreaming of Vermont

February flakes are as big as saucers here
and so white and soft we forget
we are not in a dream where we have a life in Vermont.

In that dream there would be chickens and a garden.
The white picket fence would never need painting
and would only keep the dogs and deer out.

We are all smiling and wear smocks and pressed aprons.
Boys know how to mend a lost button
Girls get to ride their blue bikes to school every day
with no fear of being flattened by careless semi drivers.

We are not medicated.
We do yoga because we like it.
We are kind to elders.
We are vegetarians most of the time.
Bread is crusty and cheese is local.

In the morning I will pick up my shovel again
and scrape the walks clear of all that gathered in the night,
pretend it didn't happen, and bless the sky for every fresh feather.

Valentine's Day

When love comes gnawing at my ankles on nights like this,
it is plausible that the shaven head of the life I have chosen
is glancing around at the party to see if any of this hunger
is justified.

When my daughter demands with no sarcasm, "Next time, let me choose for you.
You are not good at this." I might just let her dress me
in some other joy, woven of the finest gauze and with adorable wings
for movements quick as a humming bird
and twice as fierce.

With armor made of feathers and plenty of air to breathe,
who wouldn't swoop near dandelion fluff
just to watch it scatter seeds
into a great big world of sexy sky?

Instead, I lick the envelope
and slowly seal the card into place
with my initials and a heart ready to burst.

Malingerer

The suspicious passenger
that leaks bloody evidence
onto my clothes,
rides close to my heart
like a weaver interlacing threads
as craftily as a spirited spider.

My thoughts are blistering
with anxious and yeasty fumes
in a chalice lifted to the lips of friends
at the end of a sorrowful meal.

The bruises malinger
after the bandages and steri-strips
fall away in the shower
and this right breast rests,
standing alone as a promontory
on the coast of a forgotten land.

I slip my bra over the wounds
and cinch the garment tight. I cradle the softness
in my two hands and soothe myself by singing.

The crying infant will eventually fall asleep.

White

This cavernous winter
thunders with love,
abounding with the mystery
of everywhere.

When I danced in my kitchen at 10 a.m.,
no one but me
watching the snow fall again
and again, my heart thundered with the motion
of God within.

Others may falter and lack the wisdom
of all the ways the blessings of this body
can scatter what has come to plunder
motion.

Do not be nervous.

We dance to celebrate snow,
and cold does not touch us
when we move in time
to the music of some other
white heaven.