Driving in to San Francisco I took the interchange of ideas,
and over the skywhite bridge the sea was both auburn
like my mom’s hair and the color of wet cement
like the airport in Great Falls, Montana, my birth place, all stretched out to the
horizon, and windy.
I hope all my romantic thoughts can amount to a tender conversation
with the world.
Everything was chlorophyll and blue today.
I feel so lonely, yet so near to everyone.
On our family bike ride yesterday, along the edge of the meadow,
I wanted to paint the trill chirp of red winged black birds.
My daughter turned 8 years old today, and when I look at a photo of us holding her,
days old, bare except for a miniature diaper,
I can almost feel her new skin under my fingertips.