You're lucky,
my mother said
in her long dying,
that you have
who loves you.

So much left unsaid
            about her life.

But she was right in this:
I am.        I do.

Wake every day
to your warm




White Night

pale green sky
to kiss shadowed water
flambeaux ripple
from marble piers
where the young men walk,
in midnight
without darkness ...

a young woman
trails one hand
towards the water, a-drift
in her own dream
of the mid-summer city,
doesn't see the young man
until he is standing
in front of her -

You look
like someone special,
he says,
the dream reflected
in his eyes - I am,
she replies.




The woman
sips coffee
             makes it last

avoids eye contact
             writes an occasional note
             in a dog-eared book

takes in
every detail -
            wrought iron palings
            the spring sky

poet's biography ->