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Embellish is her talent.
Others call it exaggeration or endless gossiping, this thing she does with stories about everyone she knows and everything they do.
Embellish.
If she’d been a seamstress, this would be yards of lace, seed pearls, decorative rows of tiny unnecessary buttons. If a farrier, her horses would flourish sleek oiled hooves and manes braided with silken jewel-tone ribbons. A baker and we’d all be feasting on lattice crusted pies and cakes coated in bright ganache shells topped with spun sugar sculptures.
But she is not these things. She is an almost ordinary somebody with a busy mind and empty hours who only needs a willing audience.
Embellish is the gift the godmothers whispered at her christening and oh it must be said—she’s made the most of the gift she was granted.

glides the highway verge
passes all the humans
in their traffic jammed shells
he is reassured again
about the superiority
of wings over wheels

November’s first snow—
field of leftover pumpkins
wearing snow white hats

Fluorescent light works.
Also, budget meetings.
Sorrow, sleeplessness, sickness
are unreliable. They can go
either way—turn you mute or
turn on a torrent of words
like turning on the kitchen tap.
One never-fail tip I’ve discovered—
Buy a new car. Fret over
the price, the color, the inevitable
dents or scratches. Repeat. Listen
to radio news of wildfires in the west
while you fret and drive.
Juxtaposition with those who lost
every single thing in their house
including their house
is guaranteed to stop a poem.
Continue like this until it’s time
to stop the car somewhere. Anywhere.
If you carry yourself along,
when you arrive
wherever you arrive
you’ll discover—
no poems there, either.

gathered on today’s walk
this bowl of supple leaves in bright shades

this bowl of supple leaves in bright shades
tomorrow’s crumbled leaf dust

tomorrow’s crumbled leaf dust
tonight’s centerpiece glowing in candlelight

last week, walking to the library
in the rain
an angel
sped by on a dirt bike
muddy legs
gold tipped wings
fluttered in the wind
I waved as she or he went by
but who knows
if the angel could see me
buried as I was behind
thick air, books, and worries
Especially the worries.
I read once that carrying them
all day leaves a trail behind,
a residue of gray dust
which dampens the light
and makes you invisible
to all things holy or magical

I’ve given up hurrying for Lent
and I remember enough
of my Catholic childhood
to know we’re nowhere near
Lent. But once I decided
I wanted
to get a jump on it
and begin
quickly
this long process of
slow
ing
down

Oh the Earth, there she goes again
only today, you wrote an ode
to the end of colors
and what does Earth answer?
Here, swift moving flash of light brown
(fawn-colored) crosses the road ahead.
Around the next curve,
sunrise paints the gray road
incandescent orange
So there, she says.
Go put that in a poem.

blue jay, yellow leaf
land together
in deep green
end of season

drink it in.
all this brightness
will give way to
winter

Welcome to
the new season,
one of my favorites.
We used to call this
the middle of autumn
Now, after intense campaigning,
it is officially known as
The Season of Many-Colored Leaves
Throwing Themselves at Your Feet
(Often in Sunshine)

This season will be immediately followed
by The Season of Crunchy Leaves

Oh, help me remember—
What is the name for the season after that?