Walking to the Bus Stop in a December Storm
Cool raindrops
swept
in my face -
the wind
shaking its hair
dry.
Jerry
The pegboard in my neighbor's garage
is littered with the outlines of various
tools of his hobby - woodworking -
like mug shots for the handyman;
have you seen this awl?
missing for 3 days now,
a worn hammer shaped
liked so;
stepping over woodshavings
as delicate as a child's curls
he leads me to his table
to show me the nightstand
he's just completed,
a battered coffee can
full of nails sitting right
where the alarm clock
would go
if retirement hadn't
laid him in its vise
and worn him smooth
with time to kill.
Archer Road
Out my bedroom window
Archer Road sweeps away
to the south like a broad
gray carpet cutting past
bare trees and high-tension
towers and a steady row
of black mailboxes
like fat crows waiting for lunch;
Archer Road sits and waits
with its shirt and pants
smoothed perfectly
in total faith that any moment
now someone will come
and it must be ready;
secretively the wind
knocks on the glass
between us and confides
the truth I felt all along -
that someone always comes,
someone always comes.
(... not the real name of the road I look out on
every day, but the name seemed to fit...)
Not Yet December But
Through the branches of now-bare trees
I see the houses of distant neighbors
that are hidden from my view
the rest of the year
by veils of leaves;
tonight their windows and porches
are lined with Christmas lights
that flicker through the swaying limbs
like the simmer of soft Morse code
I can't help but wish to decipher
as I stand out in the cold backyard
a bit longer than I had intended to,
the dog running long, fast circles
across the dry grass,
my need for a jacket hopelessly
outweighed by my need to understand
what these winking signals in the dark
sent across the airwaves to me
in shades of red, gold and white
are trying to say -
the wish to remember that
we are all always out there,
even when the days are warm
and the trees are full,
even when the nights are long
and the wind starts singing,
even when unnamed and unknown
to the faces of others,
even when so often quiet,
and hidden from sight.
Oriole
And one said What
when another said
Dark, night
and this was
on a bed after
sex
when magic could
slip between the
breaths of
cologne and smoke
on the heart's
weary trampoline
another matter
was writing
its thoughts down
while balancing
near the edge -
imagine the stars
all whited out
by the face
of one you knew
you came
to love -
if there was
a reason to our
clashing together
it was lost
on the sheets
during our cries
for God.
Like Adam Named Every Animal
Full roundabout
catching many words
and bestowing on them
titles of bigger things
than they really are;
see the purple swift
just now flying up
to us and its nest
in the eaves -
I could write love
on its wings
and send it home
with you.
A Pounding Moment
It is during a lull
in the rain clouds
that the Sun folds
then drops a small
note of confession
on the field and
woods behind
the house;
before I can dress
and rush outside
to read it
for myself
the birds have
carried it off, the
rain has made
most of the words
run off like time.
For Dinners Past
The potatoes and
beautiful things
left on plates
scrapings of butter
and salt dissolving
along with the
meaning
of why we are
here
all heading for
the same soapy
warm water
that will bless
your hands
and mine
we're both full
of the truth
and thought
of food
how you hand me
the question
of a squeaky clean
dish
and I answer you
with the cloth
folded in my
hands
like a striped
prayer
of faith.
Since I Don't Believe In Tomorrow, I Tell You Today
I think you are
the queen
of all angels
and the moon
is your
cup;
there is
a brown tree
tall among
the others
that reminds me
of your hands,
ever touching
all that
surrounds you.
Askance
At 9 a.m. there was
a wasp
on my window screen
seeking a way inside;
just after lunch
I found a ladybug
there instead
doing the same;
an hour before sunset
it was a locust
thick as a crayon
watching me quietly;
what have I ever
said or done today
to draw such attention.