Category Archives: Thingishness


The poetry of windows addresses the trouble with walls. The trouble with walls is that they are often implacable (which in a more logical world would mean resistant to plaque). Walls are opaque, unyielding, stern and something there is that does not love them. Windows like bright, fluent diplomats override that stony reticence, flutter open like eyelids, issue a glad standing invitation to light.

Mustard Seeds

The poetry of mustard seeds is measured out in tiny silver spoons. Fine black beads if spilled they scatter rapidly, desperados disbanding because the glamour of self-detonation in hot oil has worn off. They flee to dusty, unreachable places on the kitchen floor. Those who don’t make it meet their eventual fate with spluttering indignation. Determined to go out, not with a whimper but a bang.

Lit Candle

The poetry of lit candle slips its flickering hand into wide palm of night like a trusting child.  Its slight touch bravely domesticates the slouching darkness, turns it into an overgrown black Labrador pup. Newly housetrained but still excitable, recklessly friendly and everywhere all at once. The shadows stand wagging their tails and panting a little. As if to say, “We are here. There is absolutely nothing to be afraid of.”

Newly Sharpened Pencil

The poetry of newly sharpened pencil sleek graphite-tipped wand freshly possessed of a point serenades fingers with the crisp eloquence of un-popped bubble wrap. Sings in the invitational tongue of inanimate objects that has far more to do with rapt listening than logic. The way hand listens to polished banister all the way up the staircase, the way child’s feet listen to puckish puddles after rain.


The poetry of feather is weightless whisper smooth against cheek. A singular sleek caress. Feather sings of bird and all that flies beyond the deciduous particulars of plumage. Wingspan dawnsong glittereyes sharpbeak lightbone and swiftness. Which of these alone is bird? Love is a coalescing defying dissection. Transcendent assembly of bewitching detail that conjures up more than the sum of its feathers every time.


The poetry of mirror is the poetry of small silver lake hung on wall. An odd fish with a face remarkably like yours swims to the surface every time you pass by. Sings to you truthfully, if slightly offkey: World is more glasslake mirror than we suspect. And our reflections so many rainbow-colored fish that glide and shimmer at the bottom of all things … until summoned by signals we keep secret. Even from ourselves.

A Lost Button

The poetry of a lost button is the poetry of a runaway member of the marching band. Still in uniform but no longer stepping in place to a rehearsed tune. Untethered from the narrow convention of holding day’s fabric together — what might it become? A small, shining disc rolling downhill on a sidewalk. Unnoticed. Picking up speed and infinite possibilities along the way.