Some sparrows
are singing
among the sheer

curtains of fog
at the edge
of daylight.

Damp grasses
smell of wild onion
and heavy dew-drift.

The horse listens, too,
and, I suppose,
marvels more

than I that the heavy
air does not stifle
their song.

Feeder fish swim
along the edge
of the pond—

creamsicle echoes
of the dawn sky,
now clear.

I watch for a doe
and her two spotted
fawns to appear,

but today, only
the babes approach
to nibble sweet clover

then disappear
as all creatures
of the earth do,

leaving me
behind the glass,
outside nature again.

Faith dwells in the rugged hellebores that survived   
the winter of this White House, its traitorous war
against our planet.  Plucky mauve buds rise up

even before the snow has melted, scores of new seedlings
huddled below. While corrupt leaders sow chaos,
compromise our constitution, trade in lies, power and money,  

trust resides in the creeping phlox, its stripes of pink stars
inching through the rock garden, holding fast.  To protest
dawn’s indecent tweets, morning after dewy morning  

each stem in my field of wild petunias opens a fresh         
face of purest lavender, the soul’s daily dose of hope.
There are shootings by ICE agents, National Guard  

troops stationed in our cities, but the poppies return
to the scene in blazing sun. Plump buds and startling red
blooms weigh heavy on thin stems, still wave, stand strong.  

The iris – Dutch, Japanese, Siberian – separated
and relocated to unfamiliar places, nevertheless
emerge intact –  butterfly blue, purple and peach,  

their sword-leaves wrapped protectively. 
One night the Amazon catalpa bursts into bloom,
buries in heady blossoms the shoulder-high  

Hoary Mountain Mint that in just one season bullied
its way through the flower beds that call this home.
The garden, the earth, breathe a sigh of hope.

So many songs about trains
Hear that lonesome whistle blow
I knew that sound
It was a comfort to my ears
   
Gigantic black steam locomotive pulling cars
Chugging through our little town
Engineer man knew how to drive it
Pull the passenger cars freight cars and the caboose  

Rode that train many times
Even a few times alone without Ma
My eight year-old self feeling so confident
Made friends with a soldier who taught me card tricks  

All the songs seemed to be written
by folks just like me who grew up
listening to that long lonesome sound
Bought our ticket rode the rails out of town   

Always to come back to my familiar
old depot with its hard wood benches
Mister DeGroot the depot agent
waiting right there by the door

It is no crime to be different,
Unmistakably you

You need not be understood,
To be loved,

The world has a place for you,
alone as you feel

The air around me

is muggy.

The scent of fresh rain

on the earth

tickles my nose.

It’s a scent

so specific,

you would only know it

if you had stood

where I am now.

Mountains surround me.

The leaves of the trees

act as a sort of protection

from the rain.

A loud clap of thunder

rattles my bones

as I watch the sky

light up

with purples,

blues,

and white.

The wind envelops me

as I begin to cry.

Every tear.

Every raindrop.

Pulls me closer in,

like nature is saying,

Me too.

I feel the same as you

This morning I thought we were fine

you and me

plato says we’re different creatures

indígenas say we’re the same

our relationship is forever

you warn me of your angers

by the dreams

that shake

me in the

night

the kidnappings

killings

mazes

the griefs you

pause there when

you feel some better

I wake, spent, you with me still

you are numb

so I think we are okay

lack of pain

eyes insensitive to sun

always welcome reliefs for us both

I draw a bath

steam the carrots

happy you crave something light

consolation for not having California surrounding us

and in our kitchen

I drink my germkiller

it does nothing

the reaction does’t take place

the new batch is wrong

not strong enough

no wonder I’m nauseated today

no wonder im blocked

no wonder I feel like all of 2021 at once

I think this plant mix will do

take a taste

but

you’re not having it

I imagine this is what cancer’s like

the only disease I don’t have

I try oranges

green powder

everything is as wrong

as Mick Jagger

trying real food in the ’70s

like him,

you have no idea what I’m trying to do here

hours later

the bath still waiting

cold now

dampening the air

a few flies in it the worse for wear

I’d get a secondary cold if I went in there now

but really I just forgot it

you’re fighting without me

I’m fighting without you

im always trying to find a way to get to what you need

and I don’t know if you know that

if only I could find a marriage counseling workbook for this

maybe next life, you’ll believe my intentions

more than my partners did

maybe next life

will come soon enough for both of us

maybe next life

“Praise God from whom all blessings flow.”
That God’s not male, I did not know
until in you I met God, so
I worship now with new pronouns.

God is “She” and “He” and “They.”
To have more options when I pray
helps me to you and Them relate —
my world is so much bigger now.

So when at night my head I bow,
my thoughts will often drift to thou.
This tiny joy, my God allows —
Praise lovely you and Holy Ghost!

My sister and I wonder about our native ancestors

One percent carried in our DNA on our father’s side

tells of our connection, now lost in the distance of time

Were they warriors who battled the incoming tide of settlers?

Did they follow the buffalo herds grazing across the Plains,

embracing the animals who were part of their way of life?

Did they mark the movements of the sun, moon and stars

in sacred spots, leaving traces upon the earth that they

celebrated with stories told in dances and songs?

We do not know the name of our Indian ancestor, only

that our seventh great grandmother was enslaved by a French

official in the Illinois territory; her half-Indian daughter

purchased by her French father is found in the annals

of Ste. Genevieve, Missouri, a relationship so faint that

only our blood carries the certainty of our kinship bond.

Sunday mornings of my youth were 
taking out pin curls and putting on dresses

Donut dozens on the way to Sunday School 
Black coffee for dad, orange juice for us

Voices lifted in rousing hymns of praise
Dad’s booming sermon of love and Jesus

Today’s Sunday mornings are
Slow wakenings and quiet contemplation

Fresh fruit smoothies and organic egg sammies
Cappuccinos, basking in front porch sunshine

“Morning neighbor” on their way to service
Bells chiming on the hour calling all to come

Both are love,    both are Jesus,    both are church
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound…

*”Mercy, pity, and peace, Are the world’s release.”
                —William Blake

it’s true:

i may not bend the world,
          but the world will not bend me

together we can tip the scales
        from wasteland of dust-dry throat
to world of blossoming loveliness
        wherein every plant receives
                            fair nurturing to thrive

*Copyright Credit: William Blake, “Eternity” from The Poetry and Prose of William Blake, edited by David V. Erdman. Copyright 1965 Doubleday & Company. Page 461.