lunette light between new green leaves noonday sun aperture light filters below greening woods refracting shadow and sunlight preening woods frog song heard from shadowy pools afternoon tune water's scent creekside breeze rises cooling dusk
lying on the old sofa in the screened porch
my view is of the tree tops
bold black strokes of a calligraphers pen
drawing thick trunks and long limbs
across a carolina blue sky
filled in with sponged leaf and green buds
interrupted by fat chenille bumbles bouncing
against the screen
and the fussing of wren parents going on about whose turn it is
to feed the hungry littles
soft spring breezes from an april I’ve never lived
in my previous lives rocks me gently in this spacious afternoon
but now its five o’clock and the rumble of a late day train
shakes me from this reverie as the small dog tunes
to the trains whistling call
and I rise to rummage through the pantry
for the makings of the evening dinner
I was raised in a series of kitchens
the first small
where the wall color would change
on whim and boredom
with a screen door pushed through
by a bird dog’s head
who would whine for leavings
at the babies table
the second
within tang of the paper mill
and fragrant of biscuits
vinegar beans and ham
where coffee was strong but mellowed by cream
and heaping spoonfuls of sugar
the third
tall ceilinged and linoleumed
holding sweating green glass jars filled with crescent melon moons
with a pantry bearing big reds
and red ants
that poured from the cereal box
fourth a kitchen
of koolaid and party fare
where the liquor cabinet was well stocked
and well used
and the floor, cork and scuffed
hard by mary janes and chasing dogs
next
open and old
where a chicken would lay
her egg on the window sill
and peck her greeting each morning
and the floored rolled down hill
then
a kitchen made of sticks
gathered from a pack rats horde
painted hunter green
with windows where the lame doe
would peer nightly
big eyed
now
a kitchen of wandering light
and walls of pear and faded aquamarine
where at last
it is the last
to see dough rise in the morning
with the sun
and joy with the moon rise
at night
the wind chanted
to the widow-maker
down down down
from high in the old oak
I heard the song they sang together
wind and limb and tree
and earth
finally earth, earthbound and severed
its life of danger
now splintered broken on the ground
its coda, bright flame
cold ash
I wanted to say
I created this life
but life created what I call my life
I wanted to say
I decided to move to this cottage
but this cottage called to me
in a dream
and I had no way of knowing it existed
until that night
And now I say
All things move at their own insistence
and I am along for the ride
one dream at a time
I read your words and weep.
holding your hands, I pray with you
and the blue shawled woman in the New York pew
then I am standing in that California highway where bodies
litter the road
saying goodbye to hope and freedom
we are all guilty of so many little sins
sins of careless words, careless actions
sins we all commit in each breath or bite
of fruit picked by bodies and souls
we are happy to ignore
as we pass the strawberries at breakfast
its no wonder physics is rattled
time has taken a holiday
and with it gravity
energy and motion have increased
and decreased
at the same moment
but see how the sun strides across the advent room
in early morning splendor
shining gold against walls
of pear and faded aquamarine
Breaking News: Evidence is mounting that a tiny subatomic particle is being influenced by forms of matter and energy that are not yet known to science but which may nevertheless affect the nature and evolution of the universe. New York Times
dreams are given to us for a reason
but for what reason do I dream of that worst day with her
finding her covered in filth and weakness
and sadness at the state of the world
then the panic
I felt that heat filled panic in the dream
of wanting to run fast across the water until I find a hollow place to hide
but I woke and reminded myself that I steadied my voice
and gently washed her body
and cleaned her bed
And together we cried
and forgave God for teaching us these parables
of love and ashes
listening to the drone of the weeder
as it makes its way across the field
its movement, a threshing
tender green stems bow to its knowledge
this one shall live
and this one
shall die
back and forth, a threshing
a separation of what was before
now after
how time is split in two
thecourseofourseasons 