The moss had known my name.
The creek whispered,
syllable by syllable over smooth stones.
The trees had never asked for much,
only presence – bare feet, open palms.

I baptized myself in shadows,
wandering dry creek beds
during summer droughts,
spoke to ghosts in the bark of a sycamore,
read gospel in the heat lighting.

Goldenrods bowed in prayer
under the weight of the sun,
honey locusts casts spiny shadows
along my path, and the gnarled Osage
leaned over the creek bed.
Turkey buzzards circled like questions
I never needed to answer.

And when night came down,
thick as creek silt,
the whippoorwill sang me gently to sleep.

Before the orchestra comes together,
the strings slide through a warm-up —
the promise of a melody about to bloom.

Have an ear for music — the mountains
unspin their heavy winter sweaters.

Hear this — the earth breaks apart
like sunflower halva pulled into strands,
its black clods grainy and buttery.

The first chord is neither a blossom, nor a bird.
It’s me.

Listen again — the earth comes now
in mouthfuls of bread,
the black hunks moist and dense.

The first chord is neither rain, nor wind.
It’s you.

A fevered call before the words
settle into poetry —
a hint at music sprouting leaves. 

Have my ear now — the hills
have slipped back into their green skirts.

I am the first violin, dusty with silence.
I’ll try to play a verse from the thick dusk within.

Tuning takes forever before I dare to write
for if I’m out of tune, I might disturb the spring.

Death Never Quits:

In recognition of Nancy, Pam, Sylvia, Jazzy.                                                                                        Thankful to Laverne for The Yellow Table image.                                                                                                                                                                   

They gathered monthly, writers with a penchant
for poetry and drinking tea,
sometimes rotating homes and gardens and porches
where a spread of delectable desserts and teas
welcomed the gathering.

Jasmine pearl, spiced chai, sassafras,  green citrus,
sipped in porcelain cups with saucers or wheel thrown
pottery mugs helped to ground them as they read poetry
like tea leaves sitting around an old oak pedestal table
stenciled with indentations of the old portable typewriter.  

Other times they met at the tea shop with yellow tables,
their words flowed from spiraled notebooks, steno pads,
personal journals, typed parchment, index cards wrapped
in rubber bands. Special tea arrived in vintage tea pots.
They spread poetry like strawberry jam across the tabletop..  

They filled old-school thermoses with tea and trekked
to Central Park, equipped with flannel blankets
and hand stitched quilts.  Each presented a favorite
book of poetry to splash stanzas across the sky,
drinking tea until the moon hung low enough to touch.  

A drive south to Nashville let them experience
the Thistle Farms Café and admire the chandelier
of donated teacups, sipping moringa or pomegranate
and dove into the days lyrics that hung like a yearning
for justice crafted in the Poetics of Space.  

A dream conjured the circle meeting at Walden Pond
and Yaddo seeking the wisdom of revered poets  and scribes
drinking Papal tea of red hibiscus brewed
with ginger and pineapple, blessed in language
they created to effect peace in the world.

        Swan on the lake
disappearing in fog—
        my mother’s face . . .

There’s No Nation Like Procrastination

On a dark and rainy morning,

With storm clouds swirling overhead,

I know I should be writing,

But I do anything instead.

I’m the king of procrastination,

Though the title is self-proclaimed,

I’m sure if I took the time to ask them,

My subjects would say the same.

But just now, one lies ‘neath a table,

Chasing rabbits in his sleep,

While one lies beside,

Snoring loud and deep.

They think it’s a great day for loafing,

And wasting away the time,

While thunder plays a symphony,

Rain on a tin roof is sublime.

I’ll force myself to do it,

I’ll peck away here at the keys,

While my mind is gathering wool,

And chasing bird song on the breeze.

Slowly I start typing,

Letter after letter,

Though I’m really not feeling it,

Tomorrow would be better.

My coffee works its magic,

And my eyes seem less blurred,

Letter after letter,

Forms word after word.

Soon I find I’m finished,

With some small elation,

One small step towards creativity,

And away from procrastination. 

When I hear thunder and see lightning
with rain dancing from the heavens
there are so many questions.

I want to be here.
But the thing is, my heart is 
all the way upstairs.

I want to be here.
But my mind is off chasing
and hunting worries.

I want to be here.
But my body is social
distancing from pain.

I guess the thing is,
I do not want to be here,
but I wish I did.

the day wakes
a choice is made

not by the day mind you  it does what it does no choice in the matter
by me  by you  by your neighbor  by the postman  by the person just now walking by on the dawn lit sidewalk  jeans too low   head held high   hands fluttering  just

will you listen with both ears
can you taste the morning coming to greet you
will you let all of your eyes scan and see the colors in sky and tree and soil
can you absorb a day through the surface of your skin

the light touch of morning breeze that is reaching out to sway the little yellow bird atop the sunflower in the front garden bed
glanced at  just  by the low-slung passerby  too  this
has sense for you

far from the fine monuments
erected for the lost
lies the trash pile  

tombstone fragments
a broken blue icon
in the corner