r james sterzinger Poems

This summer twenty-seven past
The one that I lost you
Grief comes back to me
Again as a slow wave
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this black bride
holds out her warm
woolen shawl
beacons me come
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working on a poem after I got home

right on Broadway and Fremont in North
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Two block from the church
it stands arms held out from
itself, a slow mist falling.
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I go this morning to walk
The sun an orange globe
It bullies the night's clouds
Adds this day, to its count of days.
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in the center of my father's farm or the remnants of had been a farm. before inflation and change had made it impossible
to make a living, on forty acres I sat. to the east to the creek, the springs, the north the remains of a woods, the west, the end and edges of town.the steeple of St. Mary's pointing straight up from the middle. there in the center of the field I sat on the foundation and floor of an old shed, with the horse drawn rake and plow.

in between the fields of buttercups and weeds
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Talking Bones

'Then he said to me, 'Prophesy to these bones and say to them, ‘Dry bones, hear the word of the Lord! ' Ezekiel 37: 4
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What may have just flown
Over me might be the last
Robin of fall or maybe not.
It is hard to tell.
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Time:
No harbinger of anything.
The brook rounds the rock.
gravity bends the old man like grass
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On The Subject of Time

Went to her room to watch her die
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