Thursday, August 16, 2018

On Gravity's Whisper





Moving northeast—
sky feather
fanning out.  7-17-18


Last night’s rain
drops from
myrtle blossoms.  7-17-18


First sun
is broken by honeysuckle into
yellow pieces.  7-17-18


My resolute, stalwart friend is sick now.
He writes, “I look forward to meeting Maya one day.”
An anchor thrown into the future.  7-17-18


After the rain—
puccoon, wood poppy—tall,
floating on the cool morning air.  7-17-18


Three vultures
circle overhead.
One is small.  7-18-18


The numbers at the end
of the poems have gotten out
in front of me,
me still writing back in
the olden days.  7-18-18


Morning wren and mourning dove
sing counterpoint. 
Catbird and I enjoy the music.  7-18-18


Where does it go, the light
coming through honeysuckles leaves
after it comes into my eyes?
A dance of moments as we turn on gravity’s whisper.  7-19-18


Leaving the madness
inside with the news.
Outside the world
moves as it should—
sharp bird calls
in the soft breeze.  7-19-18


All new this morning,
rosy sharons in a ring
touched by bees.  7-19-18


Catbird on the hammock
looks at me, also gray and black.
The feathered shawl.  7-19-18


Cortright asked for shadows.
I gave them to Kent,
the second attempt.  7-19-18



Above thought
bubbles rise
open with colors,
words.  7-19-18


“Who are you?” catbird asks from the myrtle.
Who am I?
A fellow breather of air, threading moments, tiny beads
on the long necklace of memory.  7-20-18


Fortunate Garden

Washington flowers,
Hannah’s flowers
dance on the screen, perfect
compositions of joy. 

The old one, new and loose as a summer gale,
blown from a Renaissance artist here
to waiting hands ready to paint
with breath.  7-24-18


Maya’s dark day recedes.
The rain stays,
but sadness lifts with the promise
of a wrap and liquid watermelon.  7-24-18


After days of rain,
the earth breathes.
In the morning sun—
dust and decay heavy
on morning air.  7-26-18


From the other side of morning,
waves of cicadas dry out
one at a time.  7-26-18


The honeysuckle volunteer
in a plastic pot reaches for the table.
A rain response.  7-26-18


Three kids
happy to see each other
bounce up the stairs.  7-26-18


Moved by the air,
creepers shed their dried bits,
whole again in intent if not in form.  7-26-1-8


Morning conversation with catbird. 
He speaks.
I listen.  7-26-18


Tim Rice

My old classmate put away in a home.
A year ago he posted to a photo of my cat
resting on my arm, “Aww.”  7-26-18


Pink spiral leans this way.
No sun yet to pull her gaze away.  7-27-18


The perfect morning
down Soapstone
yellow light
through green trees.  7-27-18


The thick air
belongs to cicadas—
their summer world
rising and falling
in waves.   7-27-18


Three kids.
Three screens.
One is on the bed.  7-27-18


Speaking up over
cicadas, the long
winded redbird.  7-27-18


Grape ivy moves across crab apple,
dead now,
assaults the maple.  7-27-18


The last of buttermilk cloud
moves east
in a blue sky.  7-27-18

  
Moving air,
moving catbird,
a streak of chipmunks.  7-27-18


Who is awake?
Honeysuckles.
Cicadas.
Wood poppies, yellow,
but still standing tall.  7-28-18


Does the light learn anything
moving through honeysuckle leaves?
Shared giggles?  7-28-18

 
The moment of sideways sun
is gone.  Catbird speaks,
sun on his head.  7-29-18


Skipper on the sharon,
carpenter bee
moves on.  7-29-18


Unknown winged insect in the plant bottle.
I lean the bottle over under the hammock and he
follows the water out the opening.
There’s a story here.  7-29-18


Moving like the wind
on the beach, cicada calls
surf the trees.  7-29-18


Heavy with color,
red bird rides
a red wind into
the green tree.  7-19-18


On the speaker phone,
happy voices playing
Animal Jam.  7-29-18


Red bird’s voice
is as sweet as
the warm blue sky.  7-29-18


Carolina wren is repeating red bird’s
two note statement.
Counterpoint in two dialects.  7-29-18


Tufted titmice
preen under grape ivy
mountain.  7-29-18


A long snake on the maple branch rests
after his jump down from the roof.
He tastes the air with his tongue.  7-29-18


Sweet morning moist
with night’s perfume.
A bird pips and then
a long wait.  7-30-18


The sky has come
all the way down this morning.
We breathe moisture,
soft and gray.  7-30-18


Who needs the news?
Outside wood poppies’
last leaves yellow.  7-30-18


Mid summer
hibiscus’ first leaves
yellow.  7-30-18


On the orange flagstones,
closed sharons,
rolled tight as cigars,
lavender now.  7-30-18