A quiet archive
of small poems.

first warm rainI forgive the version of mewho was afraid to begin

salt on your shoulderthe whole day tastes of a songwe never learned

I want everythingthe heat, the river, your handsto stay a little

the branch lets goof everything it once heldand becomes the sky

gold is only greenthat learned how to leave slowlyI practice it too

snow on the quietyour chair still facing the windowthe room holds its breath

I keep your voicein the small hour before dawnwhere nothing is lost

a bare branch, a skythe shape of what was thereis also a shape

who I was is gonewho I am is not yet herethe door stays open

the last leaf is downthe sky, suddenly widerpracticing silence

green, and then more greenuntil it is simply summerand I was brave