It has to do with the basket,
the kind the lady of the manor
in the Scottish Highlands
carries to her garden
to pick herbs.
Low and flat.
Different from the one
I try to make do with,
the wide stereotypical
basket ladies use to pick
flowers in magazines or films.
I go out with mine,
hoping for a purity of moment
which eludes me
the quality which has no name,
with which we build our lives.
Woven into hand made things,
smoothed in the hand thrown bowl.
It comes from the hands,
it’s how we give back to ourselves.


white iris

The white iris blooms
against the white fence,
wasted, as I am
today. Unsettled by
the unexpected chill
in the air.
Cocooned in the sticky
silence that comes with
being a ghost
in your own life.



Cold this morning
heater on,
porch light still at 8:18 a.m.
being careless with energy.
I slept late, compensating
for wake-ups,
and your snoring
which I tried to cuddle out
of you, pressing close to
your warm back.
Letting my own spot turn
I’ve done that a lot lately.
Too much of that in my life.
Neglecting my own patch
because someone else
is injured or traveling
or sad, or just plain bad.
Weeds grown up.
Muscles flaccid from lack of
dreams forgotten on scraps of paper.
My desk a foreign territory
I once traveled.



Bring me a different history,
a past that doesn’t continue
to rot today, a bad apple
at the bottom of the bowl.
A mother who smiled when
I was born, and daily thereafter.
A father who could praise
as well as criticize.
Friends who didn’t lie or betray,
or throw me over for someone else
like last year’s doll.
Boyfriends who didn’t use and abuse.
Husbands who weren’t indifferent,
children who knew I too was born.