Everything is story:
The yellow finch at the bird feeder.
Sister with her lips red, mother in the wine.
Father keeps the seed in the little house where
the finch returns.
I am all poet and it ruins my scope.
The storm washes over the lake
the dog's feet sound like bird claws
on the wooden floor, he turns up
to rest his head in my lap. No love
better than dog love, early this summer morning.
Against a sea of pine green the white birch
trunk charts—severe in manner—the distance between
the white hips of memory
swing, and she, mother, lover, sister, dream,
retreats or returns, a bowl of water in her hands
urging you to wash the tips of your fingers clean
and enter with her, the dream. I remember.