The Daily




I live for the daily
scent of soap,
leashing the dog
and maybe
one TV show
I haven't seen
yet;

four walls
a million miles thick
and it's
always hard
to remember
what manners are
like;

when I shop I'm one of them
again
just for a bit
then it's back to the box
the daily rut of trees
and dishes
and the inescapable
pollen
that builds up
through the open
window

set in walls
a million
miles
thick.

Abide



The snail shell,
the tiny spiderweb -

anyplace
can become
home.

The Deadly Disease of Rosebush Pruning




The deadly disease of rosebush pruning
is upon her and she has gathered up
gardening gloves and pruning shears
and headed off this May morning
into the depths of her backyard,
feet soaked by dew that hasn't dried
yet under the heat of the rising sun,
a retired husband left behind and alone
in the kitchen with his coffee and paper
where he's happiest while she begins
the work of snipping off dead blooms
and leaves, sometimes even a whole branch
that has to go, the severed limb weeping
a bit of juice at its end like a tiny tear
trembling before it falls to the grass,
her work steady under the spell
of a song she hums to herself,
hands as sure as God's in choosing
what can stay and what must go,
deep decisions to make on a day
in early spring that will affect
all of summer
yet to come.

Spring Cold





All winter we passed each other by,
busy acquaintances with places to be,
always promising we'd get together soon
though I somehow hoped you'd forget;
but now it is April and we have finally
settled comfortably in the living room
for a good long chat, I in my robe with
juice and kleenex at hand, your weight
filling my head to the point of aching
and your puns only making me sneeze,
so while you drone on in the background
like the TV, I hope you'll forgive me
this one vicious thought as I put aside
my manners and wish to God
we'd never met.

Aprilpsalm




At the bottom of the hill
the scent of blooming magnolias
settles like a fog that my dog and I
walk into and I don't know about him
but suddenly my heart is
clean, wet and cool -

if you were to take it from my chest
and plant it in the earth
I can't even imagine
what might grow.

Speech




Speech rattles to find
the right key to open my mouth
and let its manners fall out
like a drunken oaf
at a party he wasn't invited to
anyway.

I say stupid things
and before I know it
the horse is out of the gate
and riderless
and stomping on someone's
garden that is shaped
like a heart, like the pear-shape
of a lovely woman's ass.

If only speech came
with a better attachment
to the brain
I would be so much better off
and people would probably
find themselves patiently
yet eagerly
ready to hear what I have
to say.

No hoofmarks or manure
just the beautiful things
I always mean to say
that reflect the beautiful me
I am inside
that has such a hard time
getting out
when speech holds the keys
in one hand
and a bottle in the other.

Native Plants




Honeysuckle grew
across the back fence
sweet in the night air
and almost hiding the gate
that led off to the creek
where we'd spend our mornings
fishing; then there were hibiscus
and my mother's favorite roses
that she'd fuss over all summer long
before she fell ill; a hydrangea bush
filled one whole corner of the yard
with huge puffs of blue flowers,
and sometimes in spring
there'd be a few lily-of-the-valley
that none of us remembered planting
blooming near the picnic table,
though what a wonderful way
to be reminded that
you can never tell
what each new year
may bring.

A Small Doe, About 60 lbs.




They said there was no time
to stop, suddenly it was there
frozen in the headlights, and now
we're all standing out in the gravel
by the roadside having left our plates
and tables in the diner behind us
when we heard the screech of tires
and the impact, the oldest of us who've
lived here longest already knowing
what had happened, some wandering
back inside to finish their dinners
while myself and a few others stayed
to watch; beauty clots slowly in this world,
especially in the dark, so the moments
of pain and fear were gratefully
short leaving us all bystanders
with little to say as the cold
took away its last breath
to mingle with the trees
and fog.

When Pondering Just Who Rescued Who




To the petite young woman
in the veterinarian's waiting room
sitting with the huge gray dog
in her lap, engulfing her in all his
dogliness, her head barely able to
peek over his shoulders to see
if her name was being called,
to you I say you have in your arms
and lap a love more sure than any man's,
more protective than any lover's, more
eternal than any other soul who
ever tried to press you.

Andante Con Brio




Such a heinous aural assault
on our tender ears but we understand
she is seven years old and still learning,
climbing up and down the scales
on the violin's tiny neck, her right arm
working the bow as if she were her own
conductor, 1 and 2 and 3 and 4, and now
the one song she knows by heart
over and over again while our minds
explode with the wonders of twinkling
stars and questions of height,
composition and their dreams
of the world below.

Supper




It was late to be calling me in
from my perch in the tree
where the line of my thoughts
dangled down beneath the boughs
to where a person may walk by

and I might be lucky enough
to snag a minnow of thought
from their day or even a catfish
the size of a good memory,
a first kiss maybe, or

the first time they learned
to drive a car and discovered
freedom is all around us in the air
all the time just waiting to be
gathered in with our ready arms;

but I hear your voice and I'm
coming down now, my gear
stowed away neatly in my skull
until tomorrow when if I'm
lucky enough I may get another

hour alone to come back up here
and fish again, among the leaves,
the sunlight and the rushing wind
that in my ears whispers only to me,
you're free too, you're free too.