You wake but cannot open
the door. Robins peek through pre-dawn.

You speak my name...

My Sons and I Join the Pre-Dawn Chorus

Smoke alarm, you rouse me 
to the dark, my thoughts 
like crowds outside my door...

I Know Nothing About Sunday

The father is hewing sill logs. Cleaving straight and smooth,
thinking of his kids. The forest still before the axe...

The Woodcutter Contemplates Leaving His Children

Relax, I tell him, a pencil is graphite, it’s
not lead. Forget the threats of last September...

My Son Fears This World as He Hits Double Digits

On top of bookshelves, I hide what I love. Pictures you made, ladybugs from May. Morning’s modesty, I am grateful for what sticks...

Toast & Jam

Sometimes, when harvesting the garden’s cabbage
or kale, you notice a small cottontail cowering, cornered
within the grapevine. Though you have no weapon,
he does not trust your intention...

Matthew Miller

Selected work