Once native to the Great Plains,
Three cottonwoods sprinkle fairy dust
Over the sweating scouts
Skipping between tents
Coached by veteran crafters
Weaving sit-upons
Braiding lanyards
Knotting potholders
Often unsightly and useless
We sepals sing, too—
in our collective green calyx.
But only the flower blooms
catch the eye of the world—
and we receive no praise,
no hymns, no harmonies
like quiet lids that shield
the human eye,
no poems are written for us.
Yet we fold back
the night to protect,
part to cradle the light
for each new day
in the sun.
mommy doesn’t have dementia
or alzheimer’s
she’s 92
and she still volunteers and paints
and only recently stopped working
(she got fired for looking at her phone
when she wasn’t supposed to)
but she has forgotten so much
and i hate myself for getting frustrated
that i have to explain things she already knows
(or knew)
and I keep reminding myself
of how patient she was with me
when she had to explain everything
because i just didn’t know
(at least I assume she did, i don’t remember)
and i keep telling myself
these are things i will miss when she’s gone
Yes, you’re sure
Such passion,
must be sex or territory,
the repeated piercing
screams coming from
the hawk perched high
in the pine
with a pufffed-up breast.
He scolds in a belligerent cackle,
over and over
powerful enough
to make his authority known.
Then a squirrel appears squawking
on the same limb
and pushes him, drives him off–
home town advantage.
Hawk glides away screeching
then circling back–
the bravado
of one last dive,
one last bluff.
Waiting to pay
for my lunch,
the man in front
of me turned
quickly,
>
right leg over,
left leg back,
>
right leg
leading
>
left leg bringing
us face to face.
>
“You were dancing,”
I say.
>
“It’s better than
falling,”
>
he says,
tipping his hat
>
like a cowboy
as he backed
>
out the door..
Would you like to walk in silence
along the avenue of rose bush reverie with me, as
casual acquaintances?
Do you see the woman, the bird lady she is called,
see how she begs for approval, stopping to wipe her
muddy hands across the apron front? She mourns for
her flowers, her bobby pins, her cat.
She waits for permission,
from a judging voice unknown,
to cross the road made by hands she has not washed, and
longs to join the shadowed statues along Acorn Row.
There is space available here and over there, always
space
made by thunder and plows. What a joyful world it might be
for you to occupy…without interruption…Soldier’s Circle,
after six o’clock on Saturdays. The gardeners’ tools,
their wheelbarrows, and dirt-filled buckets are left to be
emptied after most weekends. The endless stone pavers
lead to closed houses and rooms filled with peaceful
dormancy and waylaid spite. We could sit down,
you and I in Sec. C, Row 4, between the statue of David,
and the Fountain of Forgiveness
(installed only last fall), to discuss
arrangements, finalize
your wishes…
if you’d like?
I spent so much time and
energy picking out the most
beautiful set of dice in the
perfect shade of purple, her
favorite color, that I never
stopped and thought about
if I should. My dad took
one look at my lilac acrylic
present and pointed out,
Why did you get dice for
your wife? She doesn’t play
games with you. My face flushes.
I burn red-hot because I know
he’s right. The dice won’t
forgive me either unless I
break a family rule, Never
take back a gift you’ve given.
They won’t see play. She doesn’t
gamble, doesn’t role-play, doesn’t
need them. I failed as a gift-giver
because I forgot the rule most impotant:
Think of the person you’re giving it to.
