When February Was June
A house that stands
is not a miracle—nor is a breath
leaving or a sun
falling, a wind
blowing, a flying
bird flying or
a dream staying,
flower dying,
leaf setting, moon
waning,
house standing—or, perhaps,
they
and you
and apple seeds,
seas splitting
and children laughing,
sky blueing
and spiders spinning
spider's websare all very much
simply that—
simply and sometimes
yellow or forgotten
or past noon
or half way
home,
night coming.O! My miracle,
my orchid on
the coffee table,
my last kiss,
my new shoes,
my silver ring,only you know
why the jellyfish
wipe stars
from their eyes.
Ordinary
I have given up on imagining I am a saint. Two golden
stones never will I cast into a sea. Nor am I
a philosopher. You will not, most days, find me plunging
into your mind, penetrating your heart or inquiring
of what some call the soul. I will not hunt you and shoot you,
nor scalpel you from the white gut of a whale.
I regret I cannot raise you from the dead.
I am simpler than that. I live on a street in a home.
I carry the key to my home in my pocket. Nights,
I sit cross-legged on the floor, waiting to be kissed, wanting
only a candle to burn, curtains to open and close.