Thanksgiving
my brother and I catch up
at halftime

open windows
I switch off a concerto
to hear the trees

sweet tea steam
dissolving
the man in the moon

turning the page . . .
these photographs
mother never pasted in

empty clothesline —
the mockingbird
begins his song

slant of light
through autumn woods —
whitethroat’s minor whistle

full moon —
the baby monitor
sighs

pine scent in the air —
a memory of Memère
cleaning house

winter dawn
a tub of washing
all run blue

frosty morning
steam rises
from the horses’ blankets