My Guest is Late

It didn't snow here tonight

but my guest is late

because an over zealous trucker

got stuck at the curve near Hogback.

The darkness and blustery chatter of the rain 

slow the thick quiet with the sudden lack of traffic,

the regular rattle of wheels  on Route 9

and chains over brittle rubber traveling east.

Soon the skinny light of December

will shrink with the cold days

and Molly Stark Highway will close

more often than the big rigs

and skiers from CT, MA, and MD would like.

I pull the blanket over aching shoulders

and drink a cup of tea before sleep.

The hum of November

all around like copper leaves

falling to their resting place.

Somewhere Before

Somewhere before I was born
I was ashes in the Earth,
or maybe that was after I died
the last time.

In the circle of all the women
I've ever been, my feet are firmly
on the ground
dancing with God.

Here, around this fire and the heat
my essential self is urgent,
seeking to join our deepest longing
and know just what to say

to the heart of the haunted
ghost-structure
where old damage
is bloody and dreaming;

the wisps of freedom
that rise up
from sorrow's bed.