Holding Fog

Alexis Rotella

At every turn
the dream
that wants me
to write it
down

::

Like holding fog
this grey cashmere scarf
I found at Goodwill

::

Scarecrow gone
but the crucifix
still stands

::

The wind
has come to sculpt
the snow

::

A bell the shape of a child is ringing.

::

Pouring rain
at midnight
a hearse stops
in front of a neighbor’s house
and waits

::

All winter
that one leaf
that won’t let go

::

The beauty of a fragment is that it’s there but not there.

::

Chinatown
every face
alone

::

Melt me winter says to spring.

::

Flying across country
I read Thoreau
in a cloud

::

She doesn’t please me at all
the people pleaser

::

What is a pomegranate if not a geode?

::

Before the concert
peep
of a pitch pipe

::

In the midst
of missing him
mosquitoes

::

Tree rings
saying hello
from long ago

::

While we talk he woks.

::

Mourning doves
an ancient
ache

::

Slowly
the incense unwinds
like a serpent
that has slept
a thousand years

::

Spring wind
I kneel
on the soft earth
and wrap my arms
around myself

::

Moths
nibble
at the night

::

Computer keyboard my word piano.

::

With a match
he ignites
one end of my shadow
and watches it
burn away

::

House quiet
I fold into full lotus
and cry

::

Digging for facts while fragments just appear.

::

As I reach to water
the fern
a sheet of falling light

::

I treasure
the stone
you threw at me

::

The snail making lace.

::

At the top
of the Ferris Wheel
lilac scent

::

Abandoned farmhouse
lace curtains blowing
out the window

::

A tulip opens…
mandala

:::