Indigo night sky,
we walk the steep hill under
spring constellations.

You’re like a stone door,
sealed at the bottom and sides —
even sky shut out.

Echoes of archways,
doorways and long shadows cast —
transoms overhead.

Roses face upwards —
with the hot, faraway sun,
an understanding.

My imperfect life,
having climbed out from under —
for what’s beautiful.

The path is well known,
the orbit and the orbited,
eyes closed and spinning.

Am I out of time,
is morning music enough,
rewritten, sung strong?

When we admit love,
the understory wakes up,
poems are written.

Windows become eyes
lit by the green valley light,
barrels become cheeks.

From stone to stone to
striped valley roses growing
magenta and pink.

The day is open,
like a sheet of velvet grass
and hills that shelter.

The same square of sky
over prayer and displacement,
for four centuries.

I just need the sun,
the moving sky above me,
and something to trust.

Saying the lost names —
how history moves forward,
the ancestor’s job.

Blue building, blue sky,
small tin pots hung on shutters,
branches reach for May.

Taking in the sun,
geraniums fill the sill,
like an open eye.

The weight of the glow,
marks every day of her life —
her long, dark heartbreak.

Spring flowers spill out
of the evening window —
we smile underneath.

Cathedral bells peal
even while I brush my teeth —
every thing holy.

At the windowsill
the gray pigeon wakes the man —
won’t be reasoned with.