What Remains Vivid Now
the memory of the pansy, bold faced, persisting
through whiplash weather.
March 14: snow.
March 15: storm of pollen
over the mountains,
across the flats,
down into the valleys —
Category: Poetry
Psalm 119:71
Truth from your mouth means more to me than striking it rich in a gold mine. With your very own hands you formed me
from an image of melt-in-your-mouth perfection.
See me — in my woolen strings, stretched
across the fuel bed, contemplating
what you meant by “Soon.”
Between the low heat of combustion,
and the failure of your flame
to spread away from the wick,
I feel set up,
enough to do a whip-around,
to ask Can you clarify that?
Can you sift the cloudy water for
clear, cold fat?
I see you — in serene objectivity,
bowed over the river stone ring,
pondering the gravity of
your mere existence;
while I hang on your every word,
like a small lamb splayed
on a spit, watching them spread
from throat towards tongue,
until you lick on just one
that lands on my drum,
like brown butter.
Inexplicably nutty and fragrant,
complex in a way
that plain butter just isn’t.
When will you see me?
“Soon.”
Ground Cherry
Outside, a July sky | above the weedy meadow | amid stalks of golden rye | I bow to you. “Hello, | from what cold, clear bottle did you pop
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The Afterglow
The sun had come down, but not out.
It was the bulb of a projector, casting
cool, blue light from its core; except for
lacking an electrical cord.
Where did the heat come from—
that changed the surface of the moon
from swiss cheese to a flat screen,
capable of displaying our vitals?
A reddish tinge across your cheeks
told the answer. It was 100 degrees,
and counting down from the minute
you walked up, and I could imagine
the peak.
We were sitting close to each other,
under the pretenses of just wanting
to share a large popcorn and soda.
You hadn’t had sugar in six weeks.
An hour after it happened, I joked:
“The vision of you undoing my laces
may be my undoing. Oh, so delicately,
your fingers untwined the knots.”
Now, several days after it happened,
I have exhausted the limit of images
on the “beauty of tight binding,”
pretending an interest in macramé.
I have laid the first and only move
in single player Cat’s Cradle,
betting on you to pinch my Xs
into the Jacob’s Ladder.
So, what do you say? Let’s play
until the sun comes down,
and the afterglow fades, or at least
until we have run out of shapes.
With luck, perhaps, thereafter.
I Know Why the Grass is Green
When we first met, you were fifty-three,
And not yet retired from ploughing;
Still, your itch to get out was stronger
Than the bite of briers or holly,
And the 2-for-1 gloves strong enough.
Called in from the garden, you sank
Into the sofa, a green velour piece
That needed no breaking in, steeped
As it was in smoke and grit;
You immediately felt at home.
Beside your son, stoicism failed.
You experienced his joy and purpose
As one, loving me like it was 1969,
Back when pastels were for babies,
And also for everyone else.
Once held, I met your gaze, hoping
To uncover something borrowed,
Myself reflected in your blue,
And found proof that eye color
Can skip a generation, or two.
My other inheritances include:
Your quietude in conversation,
How you walked the periphery
Of the pool, before jumping in
Good humor to ripple the room.
Your special consideration of lilies
And Queen Anne’s lace,
How you saw her in everything
That she would have loved,
And each time fell to pieces.
Your indelible softness.
How you mellowed with age,
They say, like Jell-O, or a plum
In the sun – a prune? Wrinkled,
Yes, but stronger for it.
When we last met, you were seventy-three,
And not yet retired from ploughing.
okay poetry 