Poetry

Walking up at six thirty 
In the morning 
To the sound of my daughter’s voice

The cinnamon tang of ferns 
Clicks of insects like the freewheel of a bicycle 
Treetops afire 
Dying orange light

The walk 
Took me by 
A mottled stack 
Of bricks 
The place we found you 
Lying in a box

Can you make ice cubes 
From vinegar 
I ask

I should not be afraid 
Of wind-blown branches 
Or crashing planes

So shrieks the machine: 
“Treasure! Treasure’s here, just below!” 
A spade plunges into turf

All I need to know is that

The veil is thin 
Between Earth and Sky 
Beneath my back, outstretched

I want to do everything
 He said
 Not realizing how impossible that was
 In the space of one lifetime

Listen: 
This stuff needn’t be so dour