#139 – Woman Sixty Six


In the shadowy room, she watched time pass through a nebulous black form spilling across her field of view.

Darkness whispered inside of her and spread like a puddle of India ink on dry paper.

A cloud, a landscape, a signature, she oddly thought.

She twisted her body clock-wise, in an effort to halt the dark stain.  Fabric entwined her torso, strangling her legs, trapping her arms.  She wound back around, counter clock-wise, only to bind her limbs again, cocooned in hot sheets.

The grandfather clock chimed quarterly reminders of minutes, then hours, slipping away in the night.

Upon escape she barely noticed the edges of the black spill filling in to complete the flat space of sleep.


#138 – Woman Sixty Five


In a dream, she stood at the center of a cold grey ice-skating rink that

was flat, without sparkle.

She moved gingerly across the ice. Her weak ankles, trussed into white skates, bent inward and outward. Her bones ached as she negotiated the wide slippery surface.

Inching along, she observed people and animals from her life, just beneath the transparent surface.  They slept peacefully, frozen in motion and time.

This dream evoked memories of ice-skating as a child.

Smaller than the rink in her dream, she recalled the frozen pond

across from the Krups Foundry,

a Superfund site, where toxic chemicals would later leach into the

surrounding grounds, next to the town park,

the community pool and homes.


She visualized an image of her father on the ice.

Skating backwards, his blades etched large arcs into the silvery surface.

Suddenly he would jump and spin around, his body turning in the air.

He had the grace of a dancer in those moments

which is not how she remembered his movements otherwise.


In her dream she had skated clear across to the edge of the ice.

Here, she glanced back over her shoulder at the flat surface which now

shimmered a nearly blinding white light.



(image from “Orlando” by Sally Potter)


#137 – Woman Sixty Four


A spider has come to live in her Christmas tree.

Each day she dances through the needles and weaves
zig-zag patterns around the top of the small pine.
They are not circular or web-like, but appear improvised and free.

She whirls around the ribbons, lights and ornaments
building a peculiar cocoon that will fully encase the tree.

This tiny Arachne spins an abstract web in contest with herself
and pauses in the afternoon to bathe
in the warm winter sunlight that shrouds the dusty green branches.

#135 – Woman Sixty Two


No one has picked the persimmons at the top of the tree.


Out of reach and overripe, they are swollen, blushing a ready



Each full fruit forcefully bends an accommodating branch

into a curve.  Several remain camouflaged behind crimson leaves.


In the morning the ravens squawk and swoop in to eat the fruit.

She observes their black feathers in contrast to the auburn orbs.

#133 – Woman Sixty


Last night, the full moon came in for an unannounced visit.

She angled herself, beamed her white light in

through the wide window and woke the woman.


Her father used to tell her, “The moon has a hold of you.”


In this recollection, she recognized that it was the moonlight filling her

up with melancholy, unease and regret,

just as it did when she was a girl.


But soon, the lunar position will bend and the luminosity

will dissipate along with her restlessness.


The woman will forget again until the moon shines her light into sleepy eyes,
to remind her.

#131 – Woman Fifty Eight


She exhales a misty pink vapor

and witnesses an identical cloud

when she presses her eyes closed.


She expels a magenta ectoplasm,

blooms a rosy aura that

pulses through an array of

violets and hot pinks,

bends into glowing

neon, then vaporizes.


Like a reassurance that comes,

then goes,

her odd fog comforts

from the inside out.


#130 – Woman Fifty Seven


On a bright morning, without signal, she arrived

and was swallowed into the thick dusty woodland of the Pine Barrens.


Lost in plain view,

she hovered inside this portal.

Not the past or future, but the present,

holding her still

so that she could feel the sandy ground,

inhale the mild salt air.


She waited and through squinted glances observed the sharp green pine needles

surrounding the cranberry bogs which glowed a disarming red

warning in the landscape.


She was a misplaced possession,

a mounting crisis,

just slightly out of reach.