Night Song

The wind is blowing in the trees,
    the sky is dark and gray;
The lions here are ill at ease,
    and loath to stay that way.
There is a restlessness outside,
    a fathom deep, a mile wide —
            and we
            must be
    the minions of anxiety.

Our fav’rite books have all been read,
    they’re back up on the shelf;
The lion wants another song
    that he can sing himself.
There is, without, another storm,
    (inside these walls, those are the norm)
            but lest
            we rest
    our anxiousness should be confessed,

            we know
            just so:
    we anxious minions of the soon-to-go

Sonnet 39: In Which She Is Chasing Something

A dream need not be fearsome.

A dream need not be fearsome, she has found,
But yet be odd and hard to understand;
She runs on, over unfamiliar ground,
Across a strange and foreign stretch of land

The trees are clumped in moving sorts of groves
With leaves of gossamer and mercury;
They point her towards her quarry as it moves,
A sort of arboreal courtesy

But she cannot make out with clarity
Just what it is she chases all the while;
But yet, she runs on, with celerity,
Across one lonely mile after mile

She doesn’t know what has been put to flight
Although she has this dream most every night

A Month of Saturdays

Within a month of Saturdays
Along the walks of glee,
She set her pastel colors off
To find inerrancy.

She chalked one up for whimsy,
And another one for blues,
In gardens she drew on the ground
And on the avenues.

The birds and clouds all envied her
I know, I saw her there —
A month of Saturdays in one
With angels in

Her hair