Sun on the porch!
I never complained of rain.
Bees flyby my red chair.


It is quiet now.

I cannot hear your stories anymore, how you would repeat the same one over and over once the dimentia had got you. Now you are not here to ask about the parts I have forgotten. How come you told me five times and I cannot remember?
It is quiet now, and I miss your grace, your smiling face, your eyes that inspired trust.
Do not worry, I will keep feeding Frisky while you are gone.

a worn Bible sits
snow falls on the fence posts
her smile on dark days

Coyotes in their natural habitat


a haibun about siblings

The term ‘lone wolf’ is a misnomer. It is coyotes that rarely run in packs, and often hunt alone, around the clock. Yesterday I spoke to my brother on the telephone. He is older than I, and I have always looked to up to him, even when the facts told me not to. It was something that became part of me when I was a child. We were both abused by our father, and our mother loved us, but she did not defend us. Some would say that is not real love, but time and age have brought me to an understanding of different kinds of love, and people’s limitations, even our parents, whom we expect the most from. But that is not what I wanted to talk about. I wanted to talk about a connection between siblings who have been through the war together. A love that remains even after failing one another countless times. I have a vivid memory of my big brother cowering from a strike and protecting his head at sixteen. Ever since, I have seen the soft part of him inside, the part that gets angry but never fights back. Fight or flight? Could it be that simple as an explanation of why he is nearly sixty and still running away? He was taller and stronger but he never fought back.

I think on these things but not for long. Like him, I am choosing to look towards what remains of our future. I am the only one left in the family that is listening to his stories, and asks for more. I want to know what happened the first time he left home when he was seventeen and I was fourteen, the year Elvis died. Two losses that year. Did he miss me too–I want to ask–but I never do. He was my only buffer between myself and the parental bubble, and he is correct, I suppose, when I call him my hero, and he says that he was no hero. He did what he had to do for himself. When I had the strength to run, I ran too. But in my memory he will remain that way, just as now, the one that had the least to give and still let me in. He was grumpy but he wasn’t cruel. He is difficult and still scares me when he is out there roaming with no place to live and only so many dollars. I want him to settle down so I won’t be anxious. He will tell me not to worry, but that also was part of our picture, to continue watching the window for sight of him returning home.

you will not be tamed
time flies and you still run wild
tree canopy roof