I long for you:
the snowflakes kiss
my eyelids
and layer white
on white
by my feet.

“In the linden grove beside the stream
a soft-eyed girl in weeds bends down to see
a cat near death, his fur like cream”
“In this story of the hermit saint, one stoic thorn
from the rose honors the responsible
with blood and pain.
The moonlight, like an open door, questions and answers us.”
“A few drinkers are still awake,
lit by shadow
and a tallow candle.”
by Ellen Deitz Tucker That we do not fall betweenthe wide-spaced atoms plottingedge and surface in our world—that the world itself does not fall through us, that our bodiescan move…
The heavens mapped? The spent mind
of a wanderer mapped back upon his silent sky
Priests talk about the end of time—
how all this will burn.
It’s true: my dearest friend did not die
when I was in España