Reversal
The boy’s tongue is thick /
and inexact /
and his lips will not arrange themselves . . .
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It’s like forgiveness
The long stroke of raven’s oar /
dips into deep sky and cuts across /
the fast-moving shadow of a turkey vulture. -
Clearing ground
Trimming red lantana I have neglected /
reveals leaves long turned to mulch, /
blackening the ground. I saw my father this morning . . . -
My children growing older
Another laughing scream, and I send them all outdoors. /
Out, out! -
Johan
last night / who pops up in my head? / johan / slender little johan / i wish / we had grown up together
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Plunging obscurity
Screen-stained fingertips, / blue-lit fingerprints. / Is humanness obsolete? / A like; a follow; a friend. / A city’s patronage / blunted by estranged neighbours.
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The water dipper
Dented, squat, aluminum cylinder, with a flat handle / the length of a child’s forearm. It hangs on a nail / beside a five-gallon crock of well water that sits on a shelf / just inside a fly-stippled screen door.
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There must be a way to listen
like a small body of water / reflective face, upturned: benign / an entity of acceptance. / Water embraces the sunken. The near-dying / as well as the thriving stir, like plants / practicing grace as they lean on the current.
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Writing about what you really care about
Recently my 90-year-old mother completed a challenging 1000-piece puzzle, a collage of photos based on the Battle of Arnhem. The difficulty level sparked a real sense of accomplishment as the scenes emerged. Occasionally I’d help her; we’d whoop with abandon when an elusive piece was finally placed. Mom relished fitting in the odd colourful detail,…
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Hyacinth
Those chandeliers of fragrance / so charmed me that four trips / and so many phone calls to try / to find a bulb was a worthy price.
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Awakenings
The sky holds a smokelike hue / as the simmering substance of fire rises. / Fingers of light mold the clay of creation, / sculpt vagueness, uncloak ambiguities, / gathers the world to itself again.
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Frost
All this festooning of eaves / and downspouts! Chimneys. Shingles. / Every edge. Who leaves behind / breath, like a call card / fished from the smock / of a wizened artist, with sable brushes / strapped to each hand, faceting / gutters and sycamore trees, / even that elderly, ivied tentacle?
