​morning lines #157
There are cardinals in the sky,
red-feathered and biretta-capped,
some avian, others ecclesiastical,
out of sight, these days, but
somehow on my mind.
 
morning lines #156
Here it is Friday,
like all the rest,
without the rest,
but with the morning magic
of let-there-be-light,
even as hope heaves a sigh
and wonder walks out the door.
 
morning lines #155
Now you write something. Picture yourself in a can-opened Airstream on the desert valley’s deadly floor. You’re exposed to the thin sexless air; the chill settles into your femurs … forever. But the night sky with its diamond-dusted blanket of black warms your eyes, as you drift off. Soon, the earth clicks into place and light undoes dark. The desert’s morning tongue unfurls a parched but perfect new day, where punishing sun, sand, stinging insects, and the beauty of a million wind-sculpted minimoons coalesce. Now stop writing.
 
morning lines #154
She craved a life lying spread-
eagle on warm volcanic sand,
not making snow angels in Ottawa
with a wan Canadian man.