long workday . . .
I sit in the garage
till the Zeppelin ends
Author: Michael Dylan Welch
Michael Dylan Welch is poet laureate of Redmond, Washington, and curator for two poetry reading series in Redmond. His latest poetry book is True Colour. He is a longtime officer of the Haiku Society of America, and proprietor of National Haiku Writing Month (www.nahaiwrimo.com). His personal website is www.graceguts.com, devoted mostly to poetry.
a different cool
than the Douglas firs
redwood shade
moment of silence—
dry ice fog
drifting to the end zone
yellowing maple—
I feel
for my bald spot
chill in the air—
leaves swirling
by an election sign
funeral procession—
a classic Harley
with an empty sidecar
guitar solo
on the car radio—
my fretting fingers
breakup talk —
our breath mingling
in the winter air
my blue bathrobe
worn at the hook spot —
New Year’s Day
clear-cut pines—
concentric circles
filling the pond
short day—
the smell of wet mittens
drying by the fire
chairs overturned
on dusk-lit tables–
a pause in the broom
long sermon–
biscuits and crayons
passed along the pew
bills due–
in my dream
the endless stairs
unpacked box
on the kitchen table—
foreign headlines
traffic stop
the neon buddha tries to claim
diplomatic immunity
family reunion —
the camera timer
goes off too soon
late show on TV —
I finish cleaning up
for the cleaning lady
fox on the trail —
your hand held up
to my chest
only so far
onto the beach
tracks of a wheelchair
a firefly’s glow
against her palm
passed to mine
night jog—
sparks from a train
rounding a turn
toll booth lit for Christmas —
from my hand to hers
warm change
Valentine’s Day–
she reminds me
to fasten my seatbelt
first date–
letting her
put snow down my neck
first snow …
the children’s hangers
clatter in the closet
meteor shower . . .
a gentle wave
wets our sandals
first cold night–
the click of your domino
as we play by the fire
relaxing my arm
butterfly
on the bullseye
summer moonlight
the potter’s wheel
slows
crackling beach fire–
we hum in place of words
we can’t recall
spring breeze–
the pull of her hand
as we near the pet store
tourists talking
in several languages–
the glassblower exhales
reading in bed
my pulse flickering
the lightly held bookmark
accumulating snow–
oven mitts
praying on the counter
toll booth lit for Christmas–
from my hand to hers
warm change
steady breathing . . .
a kiss on her cheek
ends the story of Christmas
first star–
a seashell held
to my baby’s ear
the silent wind chime–
my nephew blows soap bubbles
over and over