For so long,
I have not written you
in pixels and white spaces—
forgive me, I was reading
the shadow of tree branches on snow.
Straight lines are boxing somehow,
especially today when
light droplets fling themselves into the melt
and the Blue Jays laugh,
shaking it all from their backs like
I think I have made peace with myself
except when I am someone else’s mirror-
most glass is lucky-- it doesn’t remember
what it reflects.
So I usually polish a bit with tears,
at after-burned images.
Maybe it is the new trifocals—
wood of any kind scratches them
and I am always playing in sawdust and dead-fall.
I think I heard myself