A Small
White House In Winter
Its sober wood, unblinking,
is cousin to the coffin.
I have one suggestion
for myself: When the coils
of the stove flare red
and fingertips lift cup
to tongue, and the heat is good
yet drains, pretend
you hold a star.
Holiday Shopping
Winter light, the day's last,
on the bricks of bulging stores.
The light of Vermeer,
the light of Robert Frank,
Einstein's light.
The golden light
of every silver breath.
Your light and mine,
the gift we briefly own,
the one we can't exchange.
Glimpsed While Stuck In Traffic
Suddenly, wings. A flock of geese
hovers in plush air and touches down,
as if from Bering twilight onto tundra, proving
that even by the dumpster
of the Taco Loco, inches above the asphalt
and the oil, there is sky.
Copyright
© 2006 Mark Jackley
