Day 18: River of Stones
A wire ran into the bluebird house.
A camera, he explained.
I think I’m what they call a voyeur.
Day 17: River of Stones
The buzzards, taking a break
from their slow circling, converge
on a long branch, which cracks
under their weight, sending them
flapping in all directions before
resuming their ominous rounds,
like truant boys flushed from
the pool hall, back on the streets.
Day 16: River of Stones
Although we’d trot out the old cliché,
calling her a woman of few words,
she drinks them in, eyes speeding
across the pages of books. She doles
them out, small notes, just the right
words chosen for those who need them.
Today, though,we delighted in our surprise,
rendering her—once again—speechless.
Day 15: River of Stones
The new game virtual game of chicken
we play on long drives, just us two:
How long can you go without a word?
As you man the wheel and I take my turn
as iPod deejay, which song can I play
that makes you sing along?
Day 14: River of Stones
All weekend long I’d worn the diamond studs
you gave me on our twenty-fifth, drawing
not a word, but when in whimsy I switched,
two Sundrop bottle caps dangling from my lobes,
even strangers stopped to make remarks.
Day 13: River of Stones
In January, the mistletoe hangs
in the tops of tallest trees
as if on reprieve.
One more (for Friday 13:
The antidote to triskaidekaphobia: pack the car
for the weekend, fill the tank with gas, wrap
a stack of books just right for a baby just turned
one, drive six hours, jump out of the car
greeted by squeals and sticky hugs and kisses.
Be sure to add liberal doses of cake and ice cream.
Day 12: River of Stones
Passing the house today,
the windows dark
the curtains pulled,
I shudder to think of her girls,
coming home and finding her there.
Day 11: River of Stones
With so much close at hand,
why do I keep gazing at the sky,
not a picture itself but a canvas,
a background where I might
paint the moon, the stars,
my most elusive dreams.
Day 10: River of Stones
Even though I know the clouds
obscured my view, I wish
I’d at least gotten up, tiptoed out
into the cold to gaze into the sky,
looking for the stars I knew
would fall.
Day 9: River of Stones
Not even Mardi Gras
whips us into this frenzy,
football fever, fueled
by coffee and beignets,
Hurricanes, brunch
at Brennan’s, crowds
push, shoulder to shoulder
through the French Quarter,
crimson and houndstooth
taunting purple and gold,
as many without tickets
for the game as with,
just waiting for the coin
toss, kick off, even agnostics
praying for bragging rights.
Alabama Tar Heel 