to loom as the bees must,

Small birds in May have so much to say
they can’t wait for the sun to rise,
before first light defines the horizon
they fill the bedroom window with music
the cat leaps onto the sill to listen.

These birds, I have suspicions, 
are trying to teach me a thing or two
about staying in the moment, awed,
tomorrow’s clean costume
forgotten in the closet.

In time small birds fly away
while I remain rooted listening 
to the sound of morning marching
toward noon, humming along
to what is, after all, my favorite tune.

Backyard canvas protector of all things summer
Ruptured and repaired with patches and pipes
A tad shaky and wind-weathered, still standing

The canopy for all warm weather wing-dings
Family dinners, end-of-birthday cake cuttings
Graduation station for all grazing seniors

You’ve shaded our puzzles, paintings and perler beads
Kept dry our pillows and benches
Saved pansies and petunias from sweltering sun

When your crimson panels rise to your top
The summer swelter has made its way down
And we shelter beneath your cooling shield

So simple a presence, yet so mighty in goal
Standing stalwart midst a gusty gale
You are dual, whimsy and workhorse

Revered, our Red Umbrella

The wall clocks have all died

in my house.

I look—out of habit—at the bare

kitchen socket,

at the space where time

continued, but has now

disappeared.

I squint at the old digital

substitute I’ve hoisted

to the top of the fridge.

Black numbers fade

under kitchen neon,

remind me how

the hours pass

fast.

Everywhere I look
formulaic blocks of text
separated into
bite-sized

chunks

and “it’s not x, it’s y”

or “and honestly, it was always z”.

Everywhere I look
simplification
streamlined—
ease, ease, ease.

We are setting a generation up for failure
when they don’t have the skills required
to navigate a world
that is complex
and difficult.
Attention spans shrunk
to thirty-second TikToks
most can’t read with comprehension
struggling to write two pages of original thought
because they’ve never sat—
under-stimulated and bored.
With all we have gained
the breadth and depth of knowledge
at the tattoo of fingers on a screen
did we stop to ask
what humanity
we sacrificed along the way? 

she hovered around the classsroom
slender somber face
short grey boy-cut hair
glasses perched on her nose
every day
the same pink cotton dress
with the starched Peter Pan collar
shirtwaist, hem below her knees
every day

in winter
the same grey wool blazer with matching skirt
white shirt, little red necktie 
comfortable shoes
every day

was it the familiar feel of cotton or wool on 
her skin, the safety of repitition
every morning
before she faced a room full of expectant
sixth grade faces waiting for her 
wisdom for the comfort of her voice?

she sent my first story to
 a magazine she
saw me before I saw myself

It swallows me like the ominous
rise of the long hill on my morning

run, when I try to play tricks
on my mind, distract it, make it

think about something,
anything, else—the chattering

robins who flit from one branch
to another, a fenced dog’s unbidden

bellow announcing his existence
to the world at large. But it’s not

enough, and for now
there is only the inescapable

burn of my lungs, sweat pooling
on my back and brow, the endless

familiar lead-heavy drag,
the burden of being in my body.

Since dumped into a hard change that was not my choice last summer, 
change has been hard for me.  But, I have decided to embrace the change
of a new job wholeheartedly.

Choices every day
Happiness is a choice
Always look to the bright side
Never, ever give up
Give it all you’ve got
Everyone struggles, be kind!

With my coffee,
I declare:
This is a good day
to go somewhere.

Where will I go?
I do not know.
Just take it easy
and go with the flow.