Soapstone Hill Summit
In my mind's eye
(although I knew this was not right)
I had seen a small mountain
bare summit
uneven rounds of stone
colorful soft chunks
that lay open to the sky
and there for the picking.
in my practical mind
(which protects me from discouragement)
I knew there would be none left
all taken
by visitors before me
those who had ventured
onto the hill long before
I had made my mind up to go
In fact
(I turned around once before returning)
the quarry lay at the foot of the hill
dull and gray
deep shuffling layers
by green pool's edge
I closed my fingers around
a soft chunk of stone
Illusion
We walked to the brook today
sat on too-small rocks
took off shoes and set
toes on cold water mosses
watched the pawprint shadows
of water striders
on fine gravel beds
picked caddis nymphs from submerged stone
admired their lodges
of feldspar and silk
dropped stiff brown oak leaves
into the stream
watched them spin and dive
and anchor against
the culvert.
We stared at blue eddies of foam
to make our eyesight drift
and laughed at the illusion.
We walked to the brook today
sat on too-small rocks
took off shoes and set
toes on cold water mosses
watched the pawprint shadows
of water striders
on fine gravel beds
picked caddis nymphs from submerged stone
admired their lodges
of feldspar and silk
dropped stiff brown oak leaves
into the stream
watched them spin and dive
and anchor against
the culvert.
We stared at blue eddies of foam
to make our eyesight drift
and laughed at the illusion.
|
"Tomoose" Flat red river rocks paint splattered with drops of agate sent to pave a tiny garden, a small stewardship of you and I now placed in care beneath Broken Cherry alongside the brook. The water carries our unbroken connection. |
.
|
Chance, Choice, Causality
I picked one. That's one
more and one
less anxiety for me, and one
more and one
less for you.
Not
Fair.
I don't like this
Buddhist doctrine
of causality.
How does one
relate
the Four
Noble Truths and more, how
I ache for
us and read
the Eight Folds
seeking to
share truth
without
discarding
dignity.
I picked one. That's one
more and one
less anxiety for me, and one
more and one
less for you.
Not
Fair.
I don't like this
Buddhist doctrine
of causality.
How does one
relate
the Four
Noble Truths and more, how
I ache for
us and read
the Eight Folds
seeking to
share truth
without
discarding
dignity.
|
Juniper
I saw a small girl picking juniper berries among needled leaves and said there will be many more stings like that of the wasp you tried to pet there will be more wonder than that of the tiny rabbit you caught in brown grass there will be many goodbyes like the leaving of wild mice you grew and released. in all your days to come some may be lost but none will be wasted. these things I might have said aloud but she was too far to hear. turning from the child I saw an old woman picking chokecherries from a cankered tree her whispered words blew softly past too far to hear still I was strangely comforted. |
|
Little Bluestem
red boots
stamp flat lone patches of crusty snow
hastening spring
impatient and gleeful
small hands snap stems of dry fat goldenrod
pull bundles of little bluestem
wrap the ragged bits in brambles
a birthday bouquet
to herself
Pumpa
Pumpa
had a pile of dirt
beside the porch
and yucca poking up
rudely
in his garden
he slashed trails
through wild cherries
and dug little wells
and big holes
to cover with bedsprings
Pumpa
kept the big oak
that fell
in the hurricane
of thirty eight
set a plank across
its sawed limbs
to make a store
selling rocks
and good dirt
he set a gas stove
in the yard
and told me
he would build
a house around it
so he put
a chair out there, too
Pumpa
made a swing
behind the porch
over lily of the valley
spiders wove in it
he told me
the big black rock
went all the way to China
and if I knocked on it
they would knock back
he made a golf course
of tunafish cans
and plastic tulips
Pumpa
roasted potatoes
in a plaid coffee can
outside the shed
and showed me mice
dried in their traps
roasted marshmallows
in the coal stove
baked brown sugar pies
in tiny pans
he made a whole room
outside
behind the shed
with real furniture
and enamel basins
and gave tours of it
Pumpa
had ladyslippers
and let us pick
as many as we wanted
he told long stories
set in the landscape
of the grimy painting
over his iron cot
until I fell asleep
When I am very old
I will be like Pumpa.
Pumpa
had a pile of dirt
beside the porch
and yucca poking up
rudely
in his garden
he slashed trails
through wild cherries
and dug little wells
and big holes
to cover with bedsprings
Pumpa
kept the big oak
that fell
in the hurricane
of thirty eight
set a plank across
its sawed limbs
to make a store
selling rocks
and good dirt
he set a gas stove
in the yard
and told me
he would build
a house around it
so he put
a chair out there, too
Pumpa
made a swing
behind the porch
over lily of the valley
spiders wove in it
he told me
the big black rock
went all the way to China
and if I knocked on it
they would knock back
he made a golf course
of tunafish cans
and plastic tulips
Pumpa
roasted potatoes
in a plaid coffee can
outside the shed
and showed me mice
dried in their traps
roasted marshmallows
in the coal stove
baked brown sugar pies
in tiny pans
he made a whole room
outside
behind the shed
with real furniture
and enamel basins
and gave tours of it
Pumpa
had ladyslippers
and let us pick
as many as we wanted
he told long stories
set in the landscape
of the grimy painting
over his iron cot
until I fell asleep
When I am very old
I will be like Pumpa.
Spring
spring
how tedious
every year you
promise and deliver promise and deliver
drop a few calling cards before your curtain even parts
tentative whistle of young cardinals
piercing shiva of titmice
in february
then you break
a few beaver dams
float sticks down the slow river
scatter bluets in patchy grass on the road turnout
like a fall of hail
and lasting just that long
you breeze in like the first child to the christmas tree
open all the packages
and scatter the wrappings about
tiny petals and gummy red maple flowers and mourning cloaks
and just when you become so full of yourself
leaves grown fat with your rain
too many chickadees
and deliquescent mushrooms
overburdened with your own sticky abundance
in hot disgust
you pack your trilling into summer
leaving her to set a heavy blanket over the mess
and start all over
replacing the bits you used up in a few short weeks
setting it all right again
and making sure
that next year
you again
will get all the credit
and each year
despite your excess
you make me grin
when I think no one is looking
April 2012
how tedious
every year you
promise and deliver promise and deliver
drop a few calling cards before your curtain even parts
tentative whistle of young cardinals
piercing shiva of titmice
in february
then you break
a few beaver dams
float sticks down the slow river
scatter bluets in patchy grass on the road turnout
like a fall of hail
and lasting just that long
you breeze in like the first child to the christmas tree
open all the packages
and scatter the wrappings about
tiny petals and gummy red maple flowers and mourning cloaks
and just when you become so full of yourself
leaves grown fat with your rain
too many chickadees
and deliquescent mushrooms
overburdened with your own sticky abundance
in hot disgust
you pack your trilling into summer
leaving her to set a heavy blanket over the mess
and start all over
replacing the bits you used up in a few short weeks
setting it all right again
and making sure
that next year
you again
will get all the credit
and each year
despite your excess
you make me grin
when I think no one is looking
April 2012
