I am zipped up in Daddy’s green sweater.
Mom knitted, purled, cabled together
some semblance of love.
He wore it with joy almost every day,
telling all admirers how it was made with love.
It’s wrapped around me,
but it’s not his firm arms,
not his smell (which wasn’t peppermint
or aftershave, but just him),
not his whisper in my ears,
Love you so much.
How can another year have past
without him? How can a sweater
be both so full
and so bereft of him?
poem-return February 26, 2016
Two geese fly
over the lake
with each flap
of their wings.
poem-it’s the hat July 6, 2015
It’s the hat
that first catches their attention.
Who wears hats these days,
but cowboys and teen punks?
and the punks have it backwards.
Her round little hat hasn’t enough brim
to keep off much sun,
but it has enough character to keep off
the bores and the introverts,
and that’s enough.
She doesn’t seem to notice them
drawing into the walls as she goes by,
their fear is palpable, but she is insensible.
It’s not outwardly a power hat, in fact, it’s kind of cute,
but no one wears hats these days who doesn’t wear
a confidence that scares off