Poems

In the early light, before the day has learned what it intends, I find the window already knows which direction morning bends. The cup grows cold. A bird repeats its one plain note, insists. Some things are whole before they're named — the way the light persists.

What the hand remembers the eye forgets — the weight of a stone, the grain of old wood, the way a door gives before it opens, just slightly, like a held breath.

Rain in the afternoon makes a different sound on every surface — urgent on the glass, patient on the leaves, forgiving on the earth.