Archive for December, 2017


Across the field she stands in snowfall.

Adrift in hypnotic swirl,
fluffed in cold confetti.

I walk to her, leaving no footprint,
to embrace her.


To celebrate the birth of light.

Chagall 2017
Merry Christmas

Out of Breathlessness

I have never before felt
this directly behind my eyes

At the seam between
outside and in

My iris is
concentric petals

Light funnels
to fulfill me

I sneak out past
the rays

Timing the interval
of the gap

I wave back
from the other side

My smile spans
two joys

I have never before felt
so alive

Chagall 2017


Cleaning up
after baking Christmas cookies,
I watched her struggle to fit the 1/2 measuring-cup
into the one marked 1/3.

Chagall 2017

No one was as creative as she
so the marmalade and twine
came as no surprise.

Chagall 2017

On 11th Street, where I grew up
my mom would struggle to make
the $38 monthly rent for our
run of railroad rooms.

Douglas Elliman Realtors
today lists that property
for sale at a mere $1.8M.

I always knew
the place was priceless.

With love, Chagall


Her cup of tea is still warm.

Chagall 2017

Think Into My Space

I once knew a girl obsessed with ellipses;
she would imply things to come, eliding
the thought in her mind, trailing off
inwardly to hint at deeper rich meanings
left unspoken, sometimes every word,
fill in my blanks she’d beg, a stuttered
step, trailing off in wonder, one dot
then another and then some.

Chagall 2017

I have become
what you have suggested
I be

And so
I am

You, on the other hand,
have not heard a word
I have said

And so
I am gone

Chagall 2017

Wait Up!

I do not procrastinate
so much as I optimize my leisure time

Chagall 2017

…little Christmas

The mid-afternoon sun flooded the spare bedroom,
lighting up the pillow, making the down comforter
more inviting this winter’s day, my cold flat
warmed by its rays, and I with heavy head thought
it a perfect spot for a nap, so I bundled myself
under, head to toe, with merely a gap for my nose
to protrude, sunk down deep into slumber,
releasing all tension, all care, imagining I heard
voices of children who once ran about the yard
in spring, that crazy laughter importing no care
or concern for what the day – for what all of life,
for that matter – might bring; I dreamed I was outside
looking in at my father, years ago, I heard carols playing,
smelled peppermint in the air, and as he reached for the tie
I handed him as a gift for the season, I awoke to a darkening room.

Chagall 2017

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