Poetry from The Well

You missed the half moon

You missed the half moon


You saw the blemish on my neck

And the snag in your blouse


You read the headlines and

Skipped the stories

You read 100 text messages

Gazing past words so lonely

They were groaning


You missed the half moon

The way its orange halo

Shimmered and lifted it

Even higher in the sky

Poetry I like

TO AN OLD TUNE by Lu Kuei Meng

From Love and the Turning Year — One Hundred More Poems From the Chinese.


Men hope to last a hundred years.

Flowers last just for a Spring.

Just one day of wind and rain,

And they are scattered on the earth.

If they knew what was happening to them,

They would be as miserable as men.


Poetry from The Well

Wind Envy

I’m haunted by the sight

of the trees boasting blossoms

baby pink and white

twisting against a patch of sky

crowded with clouds

racing one another nowhere.


On this side of the window

the air is still except for sounds

of bored coughs and sighs.


The sun streams in

gleaming against

the grainy blue carpet

but the wind stays outside

frenzied and free.



I don’t want to shovel snow today

To press snooze on a snow day still feels divine. All night the smell of burning garlic and onions wafted through the house, disturbing my sleep. Someone had put the slow cooker on high and I woke to find steaming black mush clinging to the side of the pot – the ground beef was suffocated of all its soft pinkness from the night before. I closed the lid. On the patio the snow towered clean and white like snow always does. I imagined heaving the burnt pile of beef and onions out the door to scatter across the milk-colored grass. Next door my neighbors’ shovels scraped the sidewalk diligently. How had they risen to face the cold so early? Did the snowflakes whirling on the other side of the glass door fall from the sky, or did they skate off of heavy branches to dance toward the ground one last time? I carried my first mug of coffee back to my room, closing the curtains before turning on the computer. The Word document glows a dirty white beneath fingerprint smudges and dust. It comforts me more than the icy layers that sparkle outside. I hide inside white walls as the tiny green buds must hide beneath the snow a few days more. We haven’t wings like the bold robins that will fearlessly cut through the last of the winter air. I don’t want to shovel snow today.