Kinds of Honey

Something rollicking or artsy or reflective, all full of its lyrical self, all proud in the blatant un-practical-ness of being a poem. We need these kinds of things in the middle of our work weeks. So you will be getting some, fresh from my fingers, in all the humility of what it means to even try to be a poet.

—

Nest

Somewhere in Vermont

stands a tiny red house

no bigger than a shed

surrounded by snow.

I wouldn’t want to

live there: too cramped.

But wouldn’t a weekend

be good fun, to see how

a winter bird must feel?

— Tucked into the wood

of a tight nest-home,

venturing out now and again

to know the vastness of the

outdoors, the bright gasp of

winter, to roam over-mountain

in the fullness of the air?