a sea of bugs on someone else's limousine,

so far away it could be different planets now.

As wheels climb higher out of the stifling heat,

a pasture sits -- bales of hay arranged

like simple spools of thread.

From heaven it must look as if

we're certain we can stitch a quilt.

No doubt the deities guffaw.

Soon enough they'll deliver

a slaughtering storm,

knife a tree with only light,

reducing hubris to its crumbs.

For now the sky is glass plate blue --

pine perfume replaces diesels pumping hard.

Ash and smoke around a campfire

flaring with its orange forks

so nonchalant in contrast to

the memories of Nasiriyah's battle hour,

to Baghdad at the boiling point --

anathema to cool lakes

with almost gravy in the mud.

A flock of gulls -- sultans

of a broader world -- a paradise

that fathoms synchronicity

and calls the air itself

a village in this wilderness

The walls are bright as brand new soap.

I could stay here forever --

my head on your lap; my feet on the couch

in a home that's truly a home.

We speak of pansies and spring

despite the autumn leaves in mulch

around our toes and jaded bones.

Your face has stories in its folds and so I pry:

"What was Mother really like?"

You come alive no differently

than starveling kites possessed

and fierce, riding winds of memory.

"She filled the room with basic joy

and God, we laughed at everything

from dented fenders to crazy stunts

of three-martini painting jobs.

She smiled at a drooping rose."

I rise to heat our chilling cups and wish

the china of his life had fewer cracks

and tables didn't lose their legs.

In many ways, the morning feels

like dragonflies on closing books --

still I flutter eager wings.

At least you have the strength to walk

the tripping paths of reminisce,

admit out loud she always returns in a dream.

I learned to grieve so quietly

that even teardrops can't be wet.

I wish my father had this steel

inside his going spine.

"Where is writing taking you?"

and I reply: "a study crowded

with awards and still no present salary."

I think I hear her bubbled laughter

channeled through your fluid lips.

Chatter, tea, and homemade

cookies in my hands

make bouillon of this heavy rain.