ZEN

The sky is neither here, nor there, a pale

blue, few high clouds, the streak of a chalk-

board just erased-- Birds busy themselves,

gossip in the hedgerow, while I doze in the shade.

The afternoon spends its gold coin. Cardinals

thread the trees, red, red, while a mockingbird

glides across the lawn, epaulets flared. The air

stretches and warms; you could pull it

like molasses taffy. I no longer have bones.

My spine fits this Adirondack chair like clay

poured in a mold. I want to be neither here,

nor there. Birds hum me to sleep.

LANDSCAPE IN WINTER

Late November, six lane interstate, but what you notice

most are the road-killed deer, lying like crumpled

rugs along the berm. Here, a shoulder, there, a leg,

a crumple of fur, a smear of blood-- What makes

it bearable is the fog, which softens the scene, draped

over the road like streamers on a Christmas tree.

Up ahead, a long strand of brake lights, a swag of beads

on a wooden banister. In the other direction, a twinkle

of headlights, stars in their own constellations.

Like the light in my mother's kitchen, that safe haven,

where the darkness of my father's anger couldn't penetrate.

She's opening the oven door, taking out gingerbread, its breath

of cloves, ginger, molasses thick in the air like the skin

on cream. Outside, snow is falling, lightly, gently,

like this fog muffling up the highway, erasing

the blood on the road. The lights in each lane keep

signaling their braille.