With a form that shifts like a wisp in sleep.
No solid shape just a ghostly guise.
I haunt the woods with fire in my eyes.
Shifting through the night, a phantom beast,
both smoke and fright.

With wings that rumble, I command the storm.
In ancient tales, my powers soared.
What am I, with a voice so loud,
splitting the skies
and parting the clouds?

In the dead of night, I silently glide,
with wings that stretch
and fears that hide.
My eyes glow red with an eerie gleam,
foretelling dark events that have yet
to be seen.

I roam the woods with six strong feet,
my glowing eyes in darkness meet.
I walk on two when I choose to stand,
a creature cursed
by ancient hands.

With sharp claws, and a long beak,
I fly through the fog, dark and sleek.
People fear my dangerous scream,
and in the woods,
you can’t escape my gleam.

I hide in the swamp, shy and rare,
with a tearful gaze and face of despair.
When glimpsed too long, I disappear,
my sorrowful form vanishing near.

Born of a mother in the dead of night.
With hooves that thunder
and wings that take flight.
Horns that twist and curl,
a terrifying sight.
A forked tail flicks in the pale moonlight.
I haunt the dark woods.

        Blinkers left on,
battery dying—
        fireflies at dusk . . .

to the rhythm of 80s radio pop
eighteen baby boomers
sweat through minute-long stations
handing off weights and TRX straps
as they build a group energy
inspired by Luella’s praise

Rain and there is no giving up 
moss, thank you God—the green
music of June, the rushing creek
timbre of cooling stones. All day,
you know, I could too—bit
of the day on the rough edge
of prayer to cool a boulder
of worry. Hmm. Wrens busy
the morning wailing a little
joy here, summer faithful
Blue Jays cache seeds
for later. Smart. How long
will I be here for this? Noticing.
Worry. Prayer? The great green.

The sun nestles itself within the vast horizon,
stretching out like an ethereal ember;
it’s delicate light echoes throughout the landscape.

It ricochets from hilltop to hilltop
on a tenacious voyage to touch
each soft mound with its warmth.

It will not rest, rays of light like sprawling fingers—
greedy to grope everything within its reach,
until at last, in one final heaving breath, the sun falls

behind that fabled line that dispels day from night.
Yet, its light continues, even in the darkness—
because absence, you see, is just another type of presence.

It was shortly before I died
I saw I needed to lower my sights
instead of shooting the moon
just cross the street  

Once I did
the decks were cleared
like Kennedy airport
with only one or two planes  

Sometimes things
you thought you knew
you have to forget you knew
and learn again  

All I ever wanted to do
was pass the ball
All I wanted was just to jump
jump and touch the net

“Soft like icey cream,” I tell him
referring to the way his fur splits,
like in that commercial for Breyers
where they pull the scoop through
layers of chocolate. I pet him
and his fur scatters the air. Yesterday,
my daughter (his mother) brushed him
and could have created another cat 
from the fur he shed. That old coat, 
the layer that shields against cold 
but bears down oppressive in the heat,
served its purpose – bless and release,
they say, and he’s here before breakfast –
light as a feather. He, and I, and the pen
flying across my journal are the only
lively things ahead of the sun. The birds
start in but he watches me, bumps
my hand with his head and suggests
with a genteel paw that my phone charger
would be better off on the floor. His
deep purr is a coo of grief. He has come
to bear witness. I believe he knows
I am ending my own winter as well,
that I, too, have things to shed.

It’s dark in my room
no moon through the transom

looking at me, the two fans
working overtime to beat 

the heat index (added injury
to the insult of flooding) 

my room is lovely, dark,
and the bed is deep but, alas, 

those promises must be kept
the morning after the return. 

Jasmine, sparkling-eyed,

Our Lady of Guadalupe
mourns as she remembers the day
she cried tears like precious gems
when so many young girls were lost
as murky flood waters
overtook cabins on the river’s edge,
torrents of rain, tangles of debris,
stuffed animals saturated in memory,
special blankets flying like flags on branches
of broken trees along the river.  

She cradles her babies,
now crying  tears to wash away the pain.
Trumpets echo the grace of angels.
 
(July 4, 2025, 28 girls from Camp Mystic in Central Texas
lost their lives in flooding from the Guadalupe River)