his work

a hand on a saw
one generation gone
a hand like mine
        on wood
        working the grain

Circling Water

Moving air
breathes tongues of cloud
through heaven’s open mouth;

    and licks the salt waves dry.

Na h’Eileanan Mòra

An ocean floor pushed against heaven,

     broke the surface with its basalt bones

where the wind was from the west,

     and the sunlight poured down…

friday

friday

came and went

the sun unseasonable
the sea reflective
human time
already
begun