my pond is retreating, from me.

now, where i once swam, rivulets create tenuous connections, between bodies, of water, outstretched, to stay, together.


tadpoles scatter, return, tickle my feet. soon, lose their tails, to gain ground as red spotted toads.


in a good year,


the monsoons will bring you back,


to me.



swimming hole

turn down

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some nights i walk around – to the other side – and repeat what you have done.
correcting the imbalance, matching the crease, and smoothing the fold.

meet the gesture but miss its meaning.
I think to do it.

most nights I dont return the favor. too false a move – not my own – to do is to mimic.

other nights, the sweet nights, i leave this act of devotion to you.

I love you most
when you turn down
my side of the bed.

rio verde

i believe word travels.


and they know of another place – of sweet blue grass and languid breezes.
turnouts with nice plants and friendly trees, less prickly, not always on the defensive.

of days spent out of range of the howl, and primal chill, of Mexican grey wolves, living just down the road, closer to the Verde, the river, the rio, which gives this place its name.

but on days like today, winter days, when the sun sits low, softly brushing down their coats – easy days – i believe they dream of this place.


and word travels.