blame it on the sunny Saturday, so
caressed by daffodil yellow
hunting for lilac leaves, perhaps
in the dream of the moment all forgotten
it is not okay
to move toward someone, to stretch out your hand.
well, his look of reproach
as good as a wall
the box carefully set
on the sidewalk
between us.
(in the house, in the box a dress
sky-blue eyelet—
the mirror and I admired it)
thought of crowding a few more in
golden days and the last available
space for something bright
(pushed out again by—
you know)
thought butterflies should
not to linger (oh zinnia aster
-oidish collision) but this
brain on going to seed
slight ladders that bring the fence
top in
turned again and told yourself
too late
a day of sudden hard light:
we’ve grown so tired
watercolor gray, so
with each visible sunbeam
we anticipate snow melting
on the verge, imagine the bee-
house warming and all green
pushing from the other side,
touch to touch, still seeking
wisdom’s communion
but tree-tough, immune
to frost, to blossom
You can read Frost’s “To Earthward” here.
driving south, pear trees
like white flame, sparked wild
and a-flourish
this in-between, on-road:
bare winter prairie behind
ahead nothing but duty
wrung of its last ounce of love
a clutter of rocks
glossed with bluebonnets
broad summer is no time for poems
not with sunflowers nodding, laden
garden spiked with color
dart of wings and cicadas singing
rather, all this haymaking over dreams
while the sun shines
some poetic justice though, heart-pause
for rabbit nestlings in the carrots
…and huddles in the marigolds
in this brash laughing season no curiosity
for everything is on display and all the work
long done—you see the bloom the fruit wild
without worry for the killing cold season
far and far away spring frost forgotten
like a bad dream—so lay your head just there
in my lap sunlight washing through closed eyelids
this caress the breeze on your open throat
and if all beauty all bounty is not for you…?
Last week, one of Claudia’s snippets included the phrase “episodes of curiosity.” It stuck with me…
We’re a flower-hungry people, so you know “bloom where you’re planted”: from that land of live oak, bluebonnets, prickly pear you grow in a neighborhood draped with ivy and crepe myrtle. Rooted shallow and wide. Your own first garden unshaded, broad-bladed grass framed by marigold, vinca, mint.
What root traces your steps
to prairie snow, sugar beets, lilac by the door? The spreading apple tree, dandelion spring. Your first taste of hate for forsythia follows to southern pine forests, thin wood at playground’s edge, understory ferns’ moist heat.
What love for a place you never belonged?
Thinking to settle: the huge rain-flopped peony, ants swarming on the buds, short burst of cerise and the cheerful yellow rose. In back, a fragrant heirloom shrub (so your children shower you with petals).
What root graces your steps
to a place of language you can’t speak? Though you can hear its nature through the soles of your feet. Rosenbogen wreathed in pink, balcony view of trellised garnet-red, scented cream-peach Vorstadt walk.
Such love for a place you never belonged.
Now you are here, tamed by hosta, daylily, boxwood hedge. Your roses true knockouts (though bees don’t care) gleaming ruby in the light. Heart-shriveled, craving green-wild and the overthrow of mulch.
What root tangles your steps
and what blame if you guard yourself from sinking right in? You’re the dandelion fluff blown by any new wind…
crabapple blossoms
sun-swelled, pomegranate bright
cardinal calling—
we’ll tread rain-fallen petals
find spring in summer corners
dreaming crabapple, pomegranate-bright
paired cardinals, redbud, tulips bobbing
in tattered sunlight—I see people—
outside!—discussing the trim of a tree
strange
how nothing in pendant birch-pods
questing tendril peas nor even flight of bees
suggests an asteroid skimming past
only five times farther than the moon
…but it happened…asteroid info here.
on a day when pear-bloom carpets
the drive, strawberries wide-eyed, grateful
we pay for the sun again in the way
we bought it with months of gray
why should it make me glad
that thunder-clap, downpour tapering
to gentle plash—I am remembering
the cracked-earth thirst of South Texas
how we turned our faces to warm rain
after breathless hours of cloud-watching
(will they, won’t they stop here or hurtle past
like the tankers on 281)
perhaps there’s no mystery:
it’s fiesta-time, now, in my hometown
bluebonnets gone in their mayfly-life
so we chase and embrace it
and here the redbuds held tight
child tulips upright, spared for tomorrow
Graceful Press Poetry 