The Bread Line Bread lines on sidewalk cracks start and end with silent smugglers. Queued, ranks of worker ants scurry to moist nests in fissures, valets to white-rice eggs, nothing matters but next. Ants begin with burdens larger than their bodies. When something needs doing, she does it – skirting roadblocks, swerving to avoid gridlock. […]Read more "The Bread Line"
Isolde on the Shoulder of St. Andrew Revelations 19:17 – And I saw an angel standing in the sun; and he cried with a loud voice, saying to all the fowls that fly in the midst of heaven, Come and gather yourselves together unto the supper of the great God. I am she, that red-tail […]Read more "Isolde on the Shoulder of St. Andrew"
The Goat’s Eyes I go to the stone wall to call the goats not from my need nor from theirs, to be with them. A herd gathers under the bent apple tree soft nickering does curiosity in their low-tone bells swinging bags of dwindling milk over dimpled apples we bathe in sunshine their wild eyes […]Read more "The Goat’s Eyes"
End-of-August Misgivings of the Old Woman Jealous of the First Grader’s New School Shoes the sign down the road – do not pick blackberries – yellow jackets our final peach pie pits and skins swarming with flies a sketch of bird song in a failing tree broken fence railings dry foxglove seed silent rocks in […]Read more "End-of-August Misgivings of the Old Woman Jealous of the First Grader’s New School Shoes"
Potting Up the Peppermint One drop of motor oil rainbows on a puddle. Limitless mileage of mycelial felt tugs at roots. Platters of map lichen spread across the patient boulder. Metastasis. Proliferation screws up to war. Epidemics. You’ve witnessed ignorance stretch boundaries of hate. When you yearn for peace, cut sprigs from the tub that […]Read more "Potting Up the Peppermint"
Raspberries in June He asks me to come by, read her some of my garden poems at four o’clock. June sun will be high and hot through the windows in her hospital room. She may sleep. The surgeons opened up her abdomen from stern to pubes and poked through the curves, bends, folds and hiding […]Read more "Raspberries in June"
Whooping Cough, 1952, Age 5 I was not trusted to climb eighteen pink stairs without fainting. I carried a porcelain bell. Not trusted with just the washable yellow robe (carry the green towel for cough ups). My chest seemed so small I didn’t know I had a heart. I didn’t trust the brown Zenith radio […]Read more "Whooping Cough, 1952, Age 5"
Ode to Slow I appreciate slow after speeding bullets, ground records, and the turbulence of climate change. Like slow food, Zafu pillows sold online, apps that ring mellow gongs to end minutes of mindfulness. Three-toed sloths live too far away for me to know. Slugs move at night on my lettuce, chewing. Rockfall and glaciers […]Read more "Ode to Slow"
Cinderella Doesn’t Live Here Anymore No. Her feet no longer hurt from dancing and romancing. She’s left her slippers behind, her mirror unsilvered. Her castle roof leaked. Knocking winds found cracks in the casements. Her prince died in her arms of gout. Her twin sons fled their home after his funeral, chased by two uncles […]Read more "Cinderella Doesn’t Live Here Anymore"
She Who Knits in the Buddhist Monastery Her bare toes nudge the barn floor from her caned rocking chair. Her fingers knit stripes, cables of mantle and crust, riffs of watersheds running down to ruffled-water blue binding. Ribbed fabric slumps around her knotted calves like lazy Vermont mountains. I pass near her. I hear a […]Read more "She Who Knits in the Buddhist Monastery"