Thursday, August 25, 2016

Rhythmic gymnastics


Near evening, the wind tosses crows

high- up between the trees --  like an exchange

of black batons. A dance of iridescence

while the sun suspends its hoops of  light

throughout the dogwood branches.

 

Together, the elements subtly glimmer

while in Rio, the Russian women glittered

from head to foot. Their florescence a version

of Monet floating in overkill. And still, I wanted

to be part of their ensemble but prefer this,

the toss and turn of rhythmic lightness

in late August. The juggling of one season's

last days with another's first. The inbetweeness

of time when the moment becomes

all sky. No beginning or end-- only

 what the judges cannot tally,

the release of hypertension and a soul.

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

In The Middle Of A Narrative


What heaven can be more real than

to retain the spirit-world of childhood..

                                            Beatrix Potter

 

The wire fence has its own thorns

along with the bramble it entangles. Caught

between both, a rabbit strains to escape.

My daughter finds him with fur bloodied

and eyes embedded in fear -- dark

 as watermelon seeds.

 

I tell her we must leave

and  get a pair of clippers

to cut him loose. We go and return.

The rabbit has vanished, leaving a vacancy

for more leaves and other things

brought by the wind. I look worried;

and my child tells me it's okay. She says

he's gone home to the sand bank

to be with his family. His mom

will bathe him and brew tea. The mice

will stitch clothing with a spider's thread

and pine needle to keep him warm.

 

Content, she stares at the fir tree

watching  a robin weave in and out,

wondering if it's more fun

nesting upstairs  in the branches

or downstairs under the roots

where the rabbits would live. And I wonder, too,

if he  has gone there, a large spruce

beyond McGregor's garden. An animal dying

into a character, into a story that continues on.

 

Monday, August 22, 2016

Beyond A Bedroom Window


 

The light is soft

and I tell the sky ---


carry me with geese

back to those wild

evenings I knew..

 
Once again

I'm the pond rippling

from something cast,

 
a firefly

matchstruck in southern pines,

 
and footprints of a fox

that linger to fill

with  fallen seeds, catkins

 
and whatever

shadows drift through her woods.

Tuesday, July 12, 2016

Character


There is the mostly white sea bird

imbibing the blue tonic

of sky. Not ice-cold but cool.

 

And beneath the pines,

a woman in her white sundress

sipping water from a bottle. Its plastic

a light sapphire.

.

Sometimes, someone mistakes the gull

for a dove in the haloed glare

and others, perceive the woman

in  her fresh purity

as the girl next door.

 

 

In Green Relief


Now

you need to step

outside

         (leaves still,

          knuckled in prayer)

            

and notice

          the flutter.

 

Its buttermilk wings

skim your feet

as if to absolve

any pain.

 

A wash

that evaporates

into wind

          yet lingers

 

(like taste or scent)

 

as you turn

to hear a door shut.

 

Stay there

and remember

you're not locked out

 

but just beginning

to enter.

 

 

Friday, June 24, 2016

Exhalation

 
Under the long pier
of bones
lungs flutter. Red
 
anemones
in the oceanic
light[  and something
swims out
 
slow and slim
only to catch
itself
 
 
on the spear-tipped
stillness
of a fern.
 

The Boy


 

Several days a week, he sits on the curb bordering

the golf course. The concrete chipped  and moss-stained

 like the bottom stair of an Inca temple. A beginning step

toward the sky and sun. For him, a step

toward supplementing the family income. Too young

for construction but old enough to out grow

his adolescent jeans, he focuses on what profit

he can make peddling fruits and vegetables.



Peppers, avocados, tomatoes, melons and mangos

are sold in crates. Nearby, he keeps a plastic bag with some cash

and coins for change. A crow in the mauve ash of a smoke tree

nags for nothing; and the wind scatters gum wrappers

near his feet. Neither distracts him. The boy stays engaged

with the task, tuning  his voice to catch more customers

as both cars and golfers go by. Fruta, vegetales --

 

his accent either Honduran or Guatemalan . Like himself,

it's undefined. But that doesn't matter. He's blessed. My child

is on the lawn learning how to swing. If lucky, his mind

won't stray beyond the flag, absorbed in the blank space

around twin butterflies and some tangled weeds.