In the Valley

I walk north where garlic mustard grows

with heart-shaped leaves,

clusters of tiny white stars.

Their slender stalks border a trail

into the woods

past a brook where the deer drink.

Back in Manhattan

they nod to me

on my solitary walks

along the river,

reminding me of the path

to your house.

I flow like the Hudson,

Mahicantuck in Lenape,

river that moves in both directions.

Reflections

I wake to view myself

through the window

robed in flimsy summer clouds

my sky-blue complexion

unblemished

I wash my face in the nearby stream

a watery mirror,

window to a time

before words

before memory

A Spat

A Venetian wineglass

sits broken

on the kitchen

window sill

its azure bowl upside down

lord and lady

in festive costumes

dancing on their heads

Nearby the glass stem waits

for glue