an american pastime

the batter strikes 

the side of the muffin tin

a grand slam out of

the long stretch of summer

slides onto home plate.

the crisp crowd cheers wildly

perched on wooden bleachers

outside the kitchen window

and a hodgepodge team of colored flags

clatter together in celebration 

of winter's coming chill. 

we pass by;

mouthfuls of blueberry crumble

smiling under hooded sweatshirts

from the living room chair

the scent of charred 

espresso beans

ring through 

the echo of the frozen fire alarm's

still night

by candlelight

breathing in shadows of silence

from the slowly rising chest on the sleeping dog

and the crackling glow

of a smile bent on sleep

in the cool of a long autumn evening

found from the living room chair

this life

there was a life in the

words that fell, swiftly

as a child falls

when mother's eyes blink, deftly

as the hammer falls

when father focuses his brow, solidly

as the flower falls into rhythm with the casket,

but,

this life is not in the words that swam from edge to edge of every page, pooling emotions into the description of a tear

this life is in the tear itself, and

in the drowning within it

this life is in the braille walls of concrete and skin scraping, skin deep 

into the waters alongside a pleated lounge-chair

this life is under the pale nails seen tapping this screen,

but no longer within the screen itself

snow day

your screams muffle in beige Burberry scarf,
and the chill rides down the steep incline of my neck;
this warm body is a roller-coaster of delightful terror,
smiling as the cold stings each tooth

a dog barks,
and you scream again
as his head surfaces from the fluffy white under your feet

and we laugh
the kind of laughter that echoes
like a wind-chime on a blustery winter day,
like adolescent girls blinded by sleet,
playing Marco Polo,
swimming in snow.

it is a rare diamond of a day;
the rough cut of every flake falls slanted and shimmering
through the clear glass steaming at the corners,
warming each pane in the air rising from kindled wood
inside our home, where we now sit,
swaddled in each others' arms,
leaning in to the storm.