Pink fire on the sharon.
Bee feast. 7-2-13
As quiet as a cricket,
baby redbird speaks, quivers
in the crab apple.
Two busy parents. 7-2-13
The gray air moving
through dry leaves is caught
in sharon’s rosy trumpets. 7-4-13
Too hot to breathe.
Cicadas manage,
one or two. 7-6-13
From the far tulip tree—
summer shakers
fill the warm morning. 7-7-13
Hands down
sassafras’ other self
helps herself to myrtle’s
light and shade. 7-7-13
Lightened and darkened
by last night’s rain,
wood garden warming up. 7-8-13
The ring of pink is complete.
Baby lady redbird
takes her rosy seat. 7-8-13
Folded up like umbrellas,
yesterday’s sharons are
purple whorls meditating
on tomorrow’s seeds. 7-10-13
You only think you know it
until you come out and
sit in it, breathe, feel the air,
hear blue jay’s noisy call. 7-11-13
An edge to it, it has,
this morning full of
of gray catbirds
talking in the gray air. 7-13-13
That wonderful sound
comes from only one thing—
redbird’s fluttering wings. 7-13-13
Sharon’s lavender cigars
litter the rose colored
flagstones. 7-13-13
Taking the uptake
of summer—
one cicada,
two.
7-18-13
The juniper crater is empty.
Last year it was full to the brim
with pokeweed. 7-21-13
Paler now, wood poppy,
as summer wanes. 7-21-13
Fish crow is telling knock-
knock jokes.
All the catbirds are laughing. 7-21-13
In her web off the blue bubble jug,
the only thing spider has captured
is a withered myrtle leaf. 7-22-13
Waiting for a poem
is better than writing a poem.
Anything can happen in a spot
of telescoped time. 9-23-13
Black and yellow wings open
in a spot that should have
sun this morning.
Swallowtail. 7-24-13
Here and there
shaking summer off,
paced cicadas,
taking it up. 7-27-13
Holding her own in the wind,
swallowtail over the open sharon. 7-27-13
Old Letters (for Rudolf Kiesslinger)
Old Letters (for Rudolf Kiesslinger)
Reading Rudi’s old letters.
He copied my poem and sent it back to
me:
The
human face of God
is nothing to depend on.
A crow, a stone, the
touch of silence in the forest—
these are the anchors.
“We are of one mind,” he writes,
his voice still real after all these
years,
“I am myself a revelation.” 7-28-13
The dance of sisters—
karate kicks that don’t connect.
Only one piece of pink chalk
at the playground. 7-31-13
