hope like arugula sprouts
big enough to be seen
from a second-floor window
*
cat out and leap-chasing
shadows—sparrow, crow,
flick/sway of still-bare branches
*
water wind-rippled in bird baths
sometimes sun-shimmered, reflecting
on redbud bark
*
that april blizzard and how
we could see again
smooth-swirl snow on rooftops,
dollops on red-budded trees
put your words away
birch leaves are gone
redbud silent in cold rain
*
how brittle the red pine needles
even now in full green
next year’s cones waiting
*
one day to the next orange leaves
scarlet berries note the difference
in sky, a human smile
*
the poster says hug a tree
to lower blood pressure
feel striation or smoothness—also listen
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.
the fine line between rain and snow
as the yoga station plays
between soothing and sentimental
to drown out house-noise, aggravation something
like the electrician’s spray-paint
between two newly planted grasses
over the struggling Joe-Pye, right up the birch
straight steady blood-pressure rise, fluorescent
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
the old refrain: if I had known…
I tried to tell you gently
but naturally
everything eats at us
what use to say we might have saved it—
the fruit, the root, the tree?
still much remains for tending
by clean cut, green try
with what I don’t know about
trees, their loves and losses
intimacies with beetle and worm
higher math. how to curtsey in
and bow out, gracefully
to say no and graciously
yes, these distances between
and how to bridge them. why
a lover fades before your eyes
or changes, or you change. how
to get up every day, new
in the eyes of dog or child
to prevent disappointment.
why words come thick
(fast in your youth, in dreams)
then vanish like the bees
though all the scented flowers
lead like a jeweled trail
to or from your heart—
and all the silent waiting
The plum tree, puny though in full flush
of summer, all its neighbors lush in sun-glow.
Limp-leaved, drab. Last year—remember?—
its branches heavy-laden, juicy, buzzing,
a jewel among backyards, good provider
of jam. Winter, amber in promise. But now—
Rest, my dear. Dream away
these sunny days, rebuilding your strength.
Hold this green and gold reaching from your roots,
an encouragement.
on this rain-drip day
goldfinches, summer-plumed, dart
sweet song and sunbolts
17 may
which will I remember for you—
grass-grown gravel track away
from constant surge and pass of cars
in bright sunshine; eight ducklings
tumbling in still water beneath the bank;
willow’s huge grateful shade; one tractor
loud-plowing this last possible acre
among apartments, hospital, shopping mall
*
18 may
all ducklings aground
in hidden huddled shelter;
gust-ruffled water
Graceful Press Poetry 