junk mail

I listen to the men working
on digging a long deep trench
across the road.
Now, no way to get in,
no way to get out.

How appropriate a metaphor
don’t you think-
we are here, either in place
or out in the world,
each with our own freedom in tact.

But we can’t get in or out
of this old world alive,
don’t you know.

And how will the nice lady
who delivers the mail
and gives the small dog treats
ever find her way
with our unasked for mail.

habit forming

He has taken to worry
not something in his wheelhouse
never had a care in the world
It was always my occupation
until I gave worry up for Lent
and forgot to pick it back up

So now he has become a list maker
and a fine print reader
and a washer of hands singing
an extra verse for good measure

I am happily ensconced in his newly acquired habit
as the worry lines behind his mask
accentuate his beautiful blue eyes

tick

it is quiet
not quiet like completely silent
there are sounds of finches, a robin,
cooing doves, the rain

but quiet
away from cities and busyness and traffic
where I can hear my soul ticking like a tiny
alarm clock

the kind you used to see
sitting on the desk of your favorite aunt
or teacher
or your grandmothers vanity

I listen to that faint tick
and wonder if I have done enough
in my time
to bring peace
before the mechanism justs runs down

there are 36 righteous men in the world
holding our places to heaven
their foot in the door
keeping it wedged open
so we can slide in
no matter whether we listened to the
ticking
and did our best
to find quiet
and peace in this fraught world

panting at the door

Night of the Cold Moon

the door was ajar
open to the night
and its calls
and untraceable
sounds, rustling in the wind
wildness panting at the door

the masks they wear
loud mouths painted
and eyes covered
shielded from glare of sun
and moon
unselfconscious in their fury
wildness panting at the door

more than anything
wandering in the dark
they are what I fear

Spring, in the year of….

close up of leaf

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

be still
my heart flutters and
I wonder if I have forgotten my medication

my heart flutters
like a small butterfly wafting
against the cool morning breeze

there are no symptoms
of anything other than Spring
just Spring and all that goes with it

my heart flutters
Spring in the year of the plague