Life With Horace

poetry & essays


opaque dawn

light lies flat and gray behind my pines
no emerging blue with morning star
nor sailing clouds with rosy blotted core
a morning to rejoice because it’s mine
and I am able to give voice

a shortling gift from an early morning, with gratitude for another day.


Leave a comment

more alive

walking from
machine cooled dullness
into hot sunlight,
mid July high noon
even if I could
there is no avoiding
this cloak of
fecund summer air
settling on my skin,
the scald of
gentle lover’s fingers
prompt me to accept
their gift, and dance
in the heat of the day

1 Comment

sleeping in moonglow

a whole moon
without stark relief
or angles
perhaps hanging
in a mist I cannot see
its clear light
muted and opaque
entering my room
by stealth
air brushing
walls and shapes
and sets them floating
in the glow
along with me

a shortling, about the moonlight that found every corner of my room last night. it was so different, I couldn’t help but notice.

Leave a comment

smaller pleasures

a dropped verbena leaf
is rubbed to bring the scent
of summer’s idle moments.
my kitchen window
frames a silver hand
that holds an instant’s light.
the soft delighted snorts
of dogs in greeting
as the day begins.
and at the kitchen door
I sip from morning’s cup
grateful for another rising sun.

Leave a comment

the false green

with winter off its rails,
a whiplash melt from ice
lays bare the lawn,
its blades now gold
and fledgling green,
looking much like march grass,
foretelling sun warmed birthing
an accidental color
it fools the eye and heart
this is not caesar’s month
the cold and snow of janus
will reclaim their space
until the sun extends its reach
into the soil, and pulls spring up


The Stuffing Bowl

Once spied upon a dusty shelf
and brought home as a prize,
the stuffing bowl sits quiet
holding memory in its curve.
The sisterhood of early rising cooks
assembling the ingredients
of timeless celebrations.
Ingatherings of family and friends
all linked by common filament.
It waits for careful hands
to lift it down and fill its heart again
with love and thankfulness.

my sister Annie and I have always called each other on Thanksgiving morning, up early, cooking.

Leave a comment

finding joy

in a redwood grove
the sun’s arm lights the ferny floor

in the company of beloved children
there is nonsense and wonder

in the winter marshland
there is texture more than color

in the midst of singing
the voices tell me stories

in the simple potent thing
there is splendor waiting for me

it feasts my eyes
and I am full of joy

Leave a comment

transition from moonlight

awake not by choice
my mind wanders freely
to think about change
as a passage, a progress
seeing light through the window
too early for sunrise
the lamp of the huntress
sends beams without warmth
as the moon sets I rise
glancing out at the shapes
tall pines against sky
emerging from darkness
to frame the new day