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A Good Box It Was 

Cardboard remnants 

of past lives

Strewed in hallways

of crowded sentiments.

Reluctant,

yet expectant

of earned places

to be found,

she caresses the cellulose caskets

of long ago purchases,

and emporer thumbs down it all.

Except, maybe one.

Maybe, that one.

Because,

that one,

was, still,

A really good box.

He's a Pine Cone Collector 

She let me warm my hands on her breast

While she brought the wine glass from the Restore

To my lips.

She said her toes were cold from waiting,

While I had picked pine cones from the ground around the mailbox

And laid them on the bush 

Outside my door. 

They would look fine 

In the bowl

Beneath the cadenza. 

And that had led from taking out the garbage 

And from a shower after a nap

While her toes grew cold from waiting.

Yet she let me warm my hands upon her breast,

While she served me refrigerated wine,

From a spigoted box. 

The Pond

 The pond on the acre of land,

Marsh and wet, deep and brackish,

Dabbled and gray, waving in motion,

Ripples,

And colored with shadows

In the valley of the rings of movement,

from the stone toss.

Breaks the tension.

Breaks the tranquil

with a plop.

Another plop.

And another.

The pond holds all the rocks

One by one,

toss and distraction

Traversing the water

on a downward journey

To the bottom

But not bottom

but a new bed

On an acre of land.