In memoriam

After all these years her reduction to ashes
sits unmolested on the fireplace mantle,
her mother afraid to let her go underground.

Her father had found her frozen in death
his and her mother’s love not enough
to save her from the cold and loneliness

of depression, that folded her in on herself.
If only she’d called, they’d have heard and come
running with hope for a new beginning.

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Hurricane Aiming at the Carolinas

The plywood hammered into place
over plate glass windows.
Survival kits of band-aids, flashlights
canned food––
sandbags at the reaches of the tide.

It’s a monster, they say, the coming
hurricane, christened Florence––
a name for a friendly waitress,
a name that might tame some of its power.

At the hurricane center, who names
has power. (Remember Adam
walking in Eden, naming, naming …)

Forecasters hang their hats on
multiple fictions. Powerless before
Nature, what else can they do but hope?

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.

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.