Lovely snail.

rain flung from the fingers of the universe

gray knuckles swelling with weather; the day's grown older

rheumy streets running their faltering way

and autumn rises up from the ground,

this tender brace of color

the universe rests its hand on treetops, whispering,

Shhh, now. Be still.

This isn't death or even dying, but tell that to the trees.

The why of shadows.

some people know the why of shadows

of bracing light and casting darkness

I wish I had a photograph of her face

the only thing visible in the deepest dark

white light offering up her laugh to the sky

while shadows moved around her

so I could know the why of shrieking joy

of moments that feel solid: this is what I want to remember

her dancing father, her spinning laugh

and a small hand cupped quietly in mine

forgetting all the shadows.