the augury

you were new as buttercups in April, silent as a spill of church-light on the grass though I felt it in my own throat - your breath and that sweet, augural hitch as I passed © Sarah Whiteley

April windstorm

the winds that rushed in yesterday to strip branches of their blooms flipped trash can lids, sent them spinning down the street, cast crows into chaotic aeronautics and sent all songbirds deep into their shrubbed shelters but today, they come out singing blithely tumbling between trees, the sidewalks surprised by pink – awash in piles … Continue reading April windstorm


on days when I cannot be here - in the sense that my vigor for living rebels - I can instead be tucked among the clutches of brush on the high plateau can instead snaps bits of silvery desert sage, crush it, inhaling - we are both of us escaped and wilder here © Sarah … Continue reading escape

flower etiquette

our forsythia doesn't bloom, never having been properly pruned the workmen (dirty-jeaned, bantering) being more adept at paint and plumbing than the etiquette of flowers © Sarah Whiteley

Sweet William

yesterday, I carried a sprig of Sweet William three miles to a favorite poet's grave simply because you do not have one and there, the trees were a free-for-all of birds - oh, gorgeous, noisome riot! some other Spring mourner before me had left a tiny, silver "s" of a snake - something you (poet, … Continue reading Sweet William


I perched there - my hands, my words, undelivered, on the edge of the porch - I could not be otherwise, though you were a hand's-breadth, (a breath's-breadth) away why leap only to be denuded, disabused of what I'd only hoped your hands had meant? perhaps I've spread the interpretation of your touch ridiculously thin, … Continue reading misinterpretation

rise up alight

these troubling days (exhaustive) have made it difficult to flare up - to keep on rising up raging somewhere closer than you'd think, someone's mother huddles down into a smooth pew, clutches sanctuary (final hope's most sacred flower) against the black-boots coming for her coming for her, for her I cannot be afraid of the … Continue reading rise up alight


I can't scrape away the last of my paint just can't though I've been peeling myself away from these walls seven years now new walls, yes, can wear my color it's yours I'll miss © Sarah Whiteley