To Eat or Be Eaten

Black-flies enter my writing house.
Too numerous to count, they hurry
across and up and down the window panes
fitfully seeking escape, unaware of the spider
two panes over, watching to see how well
its webbing will work.
The black-flies flew
through the open door. Granted they didn’t
know of the spider, but fly they did, and walk
they will into the webbing. The room throbs
with inevitability. They will be etherized
like Eliot’s patient upon the table, as will we
for better or worse in the end.

Advertisements

I skirt the violets

I skirt the violets

careful not to crush their delicate faces.

In so doing,

I step on dandelions,

an imposition of caste under my foot.

Deep into April

Easter is three weeks old,
old enough to stand on its legs
and walk the landscape speaking life
into dead grasses, reluctant buds
icy hearts of men who have given up.

Easter is what it does:
renews to left, right, and center.
Its seamless garment passing over,
the grass goes green.

Hello, Goodbye

Off you go on your tractor to split the wood.
Seems I’m always hailing you from a distance,
you at your work, I at mine watching you,
recording your work on a day in spring
that is already looking through summer
to the cold trap of winter beyond, knowing
the flare of color in fall a brief fire
that will not last but will end as we will––
brown and sere––pushed off our branch
by the buds of another spring.

For Want of an “E”

I thought you exclaimed, Oh, my dear,
and quickly my mind bent toward trouble.

But trouble had nothing to do with you
when the spelling of “dear” became deer––

Five of them in a pretty line, crossing
the field to the other side of the road

from whence they disappeared
into the stand of pines.

Dream On

The keen return of taste
the sound ear hearing clearly
the grandchild’s song––

To know spring in the smell
of earth and see the robins
run in a burst of color––

All of it clings burr-like
to the lining of memory.

Almost April

March snow inches in
from the edge of the field
to the warming center
where sun and sod converge
in a soggy melt

as our wooden fingers,
our wooden toes
are warmed from the center
when blood flows out to extremities
trembling, and awaiting relief.