Waiting to be sown,
beet seeds sit
in our pockets.
Golden lit fur
grazes in the distance.
A breeze
holding their hair
just moments before,
wisps in our direction.
Wondering why
the cherries
didn’t fruit this year,
Tim sits with Tom
near the petunias.
Weaving through rhubarb at dusk
were the bravest ears we ever did see,
one less tooth
wouldn’t stop a gal
on the hunt for that
undeniable bone marrow.
In the garden lives the golden weaving spider,
hunkered low among leafy Hosta,
hunkered with amplified caution,
hiding some place darker, more protected.
It’s living between seasons,
interlacing web of pure silver chilled moonshine threads,
nothing at the edges to tangle with the breeze,
no hindrance to vibration announcing nourishment,
a small work of fine art for one.
It’s world is hidden,
it’s early twilight mostly damp,
gone the bright radiant warmth and vulnerability,
gone the perfume of lavender blossom.
Now, when flashlight stains knotted twine,
admiring unwrapped white petals,
brick pattern beneath decking,
or geodes cracked open during desert exploration,
the spider believes it is safe.
In oak branch lives the ravenous mockingbird,
With striped, white inner wing,
glistening against the pale glow of back porch light,
collecting detail, evaluating nightfall gust,
methodically mapping the next attack.
Also living between seasons,
mimicking evening song and dry trills of oriole,
imitating rasps of the lonely bullfrog cry,
or the unanswered ring of our phones.
The jays world is open,
it’s gray breast warmed by setting ray,
perched defiant,
proclaiming it’s innate greedy nature,
beckoning conquest.
Now, as appetite increases,
hunger flickers bright in the night,
Long elegant tailfeathers span outwards,
the curved beak opens to a gasp,
a hunger is still hollow, a jump and a swoop,
he targets his prey.
This is the most important time of all,
time of crisscrossing dark terrain staying out of sight.
Time for knowing danger is upon the wind,
the remotest chances still exist,
knowing distant galaxies can collide,
and this could be the end.
It feels so small at first
like a full-size bed
or even a twin, the two of you
smashed together, his body
draped around yours
or yours around his
like a duvet filled with
the feathers of each other’s
breathing, no room
& no need for another
square inch of space
between you. Then winter
turns to spring & summer
& all either of you can stand
is a thin cotton sheet
barely touching the skin
in this sweltering room
& the bed swells to king-size
at least, a vast & perilous
& all but impassable
continent. By late autumn
the nights are cold again
& the bed has grown as big
as the world & you’re in it
alone, frozen in place
on the same side as always,
naked & shivering.
When it will come
is anyone’s guess
though it must be closer now
with so much clover
on the hillside
and the fires burning
up north.
Could be tomorrow
which would be all right,
though my heart aches
for my wife
and young daughter —
but I’ve seen the boxer
rise off the canvas,
and the bull turn
on the matador
and really, what can be done
except hope for the best
and get on with sowing:
scattering the seed
and chanting for rain
which will come
when it comes.
wind so wild
my hair is knotted
nose is running
my breath is catching up
wind so wild
my eyes are squinting
my hat falls off
a smile on my face
wind so wild
i can’t hear a thing
my fingers are frozen
my camera still shutters
I reach out to shake his hand,
but he says, I’ll take a hug,
so I let him squeeze
the life out of me. Time passes
while he clings, hurting human
full of need
for the music of still-moving blood,
the welcome sound
of any heartbeat’s thud, because
grief is a love song silenced
that leaves
an aching, empty ear.
