Hummingbird (4)


Hummingbird (4)

What overwhelms is the fate
of our breath
moving from one mouth

to the other, a form of
denial flickering by

like the hummingbird,
impossible in flight
but moving despite our logic.
The air

claims no intention. It waits,
and waiting, gives itself to us.

The gift we accept is of ourselves.


New Broadside from St. Brigid Press is in Progress!


I am pleased to announce that Emily Hancock, extraordinary letter press printer and proprietor of St. Brigid Press, is hand-setting a small broadside of one of my Chinese adaptations.

It will be available in August as a fundraising premium for a non-profit press (more details about that later), and the remainder will be offered for sale in September.


The Trains I Know


The Trains I Know

The trains I know
seek solitude
in darkness,

they wear
wind and cold
with pride,

are never
Sometimes they

sing too loud,
or mourn
harshly a

star’s fall, but
they never
deny their

purpose: to
draw between
and connect,

to witness and
serve, to bear
and endure

our unsought
to the end.


Interview/Chat with me on Brigit’s Flame Writing Community

can write on any surface

The Brigit’s Flame Writing Community has an interview/chat with me on their site:

Feel free to post questions or comments there.

An excellent hangout for writers, Brigit’s Flame members offer tips, feedback, contests and best of all, support, to writers in all stages of their careers. Please visit!




Adept at withdrawal, it retreats.
How appropriate, we think,
that its body curls
with the wind’s
tug, offering
only the
resistance. Then
it returns,
bringing to mind
the habitual offender
whose discomfiture
lies in choice,
the fear
of enclosure
removed. The
forward glance.
And back again,
whispering its
edict: concede, reclaim.
Give and take. We are as one.


Giving Time


Giving Time

The supplicant’s desire:

mornings sliced into perfect pieces, afternoons
dipped in honey, evenings freed.

A gift of absence.

To gather and bear, shaping
the resultant minutes,

she takes yeast from the air, adds
flour, water and salt.

Matched with the ripening

hour and the sweetened bitter taste,
I recall how blood
seeped through the towel, and

observe on the table the
cheese, plums, the harvested day.

* * *
This originally appeared on Bonnie Mcclellan’s International Poetry Month website. A recording is also available there: