while I make soup
Buddga's lap
fills with snow

stooping in photos
to hide his height
adopted child

an empty clay jar full of God
 

eating oysters
we come out
of our shells

parked in weeds
my sister's old Ford
I learned to drive

end of summer
i go fishing
in an old wound

cyber monday
we inflate
santa claus

river ice
i'm not the only one
alone

not the only
one on the trail
pine creaking

I return for
his funeral
the church has shrunk

Frigid winter night—
even the thieves stay at home,
except for those two.

bittersweet in the snow
the sparrows have left behind
so many y's

that leaky faucet
finally off my to-do list . . .
moving day

making the snow globe snow the child within
 

winter storm watch
she doesn't say it
back