Pretty Please

Pretty Please

Breadth and bevy of nourishment,
and also the bread we need today.

The supersubstantial and the literal,
one in each hand. The necessary

bread, the breath, the bread of air
and water, of the body falling into

rest, and also the bread of beauty,
of beveled and embellished edge.

Bread bathed in egg wash, gleaming,
braided, and a shredded heel of

day-old bread, and bakery-fine
slices, even as Venetian blinds.

Bread we bake towards, the best
bread, and bread of imperfection,

burned. Forever and ever, each
today, give us hunger and bread.

Landscape Runs in the Blood

Landscape Runs in the Blood

Your Great Grandfather Jacob
painted water, and your Great Aunt
Rose painted water, and mountains,
and fields of flowers, and as you know,
both of your parents paint, your mother
the sky and roads and your father people
in the woods or just the woods, and your
sister has garnered significant attention
for her orchards, and her youngest child
is already expressing an interest
in ponds and deciduous trees, so yes,
your calderas and canyons are lovely
and skillful, but are not yet the work
for which you will be remembered
by family and non-family alike.

This Wide Quietness

This Wide Quietness

Making a mountain
into a garden

requires three things:
you eyeballing

your terrain, distance
you condense

by blurring your vision,
and a mountain.

Stone could be moss,
snow and rocks

can become flowers
if enough hours

you devote to gentle
attention. Fennel

flowers, blush and plum
foxgloves, come

closer. You want more
beauty to care for.

Fantasy of Fewer Possessions

Fantasy of Fewer Possessions

One plate.
One tool for cutting.
One piece of string,
tied around a wrist.

Unfinished linen gown
dragging through the dirt,
earth clutching at the hem,
don’t leave me.

One sky to hold all the stars,
one plastic bag full of
one million goldfish.

Even-ing

Winter sky postcard, anyone? Hope your weekend is wonderful.