Falling, Sometimes


When I fall asleep rain is hitting the roof,

steady as in childhood.  Later I wake

to silence, watch the cloud-dusted

moon inch along its path.

The creek behind my parents’ house,

bend of it, curling around us.  I’d climb

a live oak, settle in trunk-and-branch v.

What’s the last sound of evening

before the first night noise?   Day, dusk,

dusk, darkness.  Waiting for stars to show.

Falling, sometimes, I’d let my body

slip between, not try to catch

on limbs, soft when I landed.

When I got home she was gone

already, always be sorry, her body

a husk in familiar form, spirit

scattered I thought, but dark

before sunrise a dense shadow

floated above me, mother-in-air.



Night Creatures


Field stretches up to the woods.  There’s a sort

of path here, on the periphery, summer

evening, rose-tinted near-dark sky. 

I turn away from the light, peer inside.  Boulders and

oaks grow together, ferns and witch hazel

intertwine, intricate, indistinct.

A few steps into the woods, not far, I stand

still, fade out of color, lose angles, lines,

dissolve into smoke of a fire

gone out, hidden.

Small owl lands on a branch

near my head, we don’t move, I

don’t want her to fly.  Under her eyes

I become material again, substantial.  She

waits for me to go so she can get what she came for.