Puff Of Smoke Poems

Sometimes it’s a tiny poem
One seashell from the jar of many
Sometimes it’s the size of
One whole ocean.
The trick is always the same—
Hold your breath. Plunge in.
Jump with this whole resisting body.
Swim. Don’t drown. Better yet,
Float on your back.
Look at the sun
Through the clouds

remember how to
eat breakfast alone
one small bowl
of strawberries
after you’ve gone
eaten while picturing
your late night arrival
at the other end of
this wide map

Your local branch
Blooms once a season
with warm weather terms
great rates right here
where you’ve built all
this equity

because
this season can’t be bought
your local branch
oh you remember
where it is
leafing out
thick with possibility

your local branch, the one
that in the lucky years
blooms along with the
world you’ve waited through
and waded through
for all this long winter

On sale now, for a limited time,
This Spring can all be yours

All our ghosts are there
Forever on the other side
doing what ghosts do
knocking or moaning,
chain rattling,
or waiting nearly mute
nearly helpless to applaud
or warn managing nothing more
than a smile, a raised eyebrow at
our triumphant entrances
our many follies
the ghosts I like best
are the ones minding their own
business sipping tea, reading,
or napping beneath a coverlet of flowers
biding the time
on their side of the door.

Face down
Is how I place
A book after
Reading.
It doesn’t matter
What book.
Any book.
I am searching
(quietly and always)

For you, and this
Is our secret signal
Like a tiny flag waving
Or the ear always listening
For the soft buttery accent
Of home. I recognize you
When you tilt
Your head sideways
To read the title
Imprinted on my spine.

book meant for meadows
grew pale with dust all winter—
guide to butterflies

Seventeen syllables
for your birthday
I will always
remember

safe to say
sadness can be counted
contained in a shape
then poured out

after words the nearly empty
jar holds this
slender layer of sludge

good for growing green days.
The rest? Clear glass again
shining in the sun

When the world hands you a gift
open it
fast or slow, whatever suits
your mood maybe
you’ll decide to carry it
tucked into a pocket
for a day or a season
where it can whistle joy
all day close to your skin
unopened and fizzing
waiting while you get ready
for what’s inside.

restless cat today
snow forecast juts and topples
his plans for sun naps

The ones who wander
restless all night in the streets
Oh, the ones we secretly loved best of all
the ones who won’t be tamed or contained
the ones who run wild