Wheat straw set between the root and row
Where green tomatoes slowly grow, sunbathing,
like spoiled children, young still dreaming
A thousand blooms, a thousand cherries,
Offering, in open hands,
Wondering, “Who is it I can feed?
With only one bee listening?”
Apple tree, who knew you were such an inspiration
When at times growing up,
you swore you’d never grow up straight,
now bearing precious fruit.
What the elder holds that the child does not
is a fruit patiently forged, matured through aging
What the child holds that the elder does not
Is a fruit yet ripe, unlimited with possibilities.
Two weeks of a drought in june
the empty holler holds its hands up in prayer,
naked now, ecstatic in smiling
as rain gives answer to their calling
Houseplants remind me
How precious things are always there, small
Passing through the screen of the window–the memory drifting off now
If you never take the time to water them
Were you listening when the preacher spoke about hate
or were you napping then?
Maybe none of us are listening to what could be healing
thinking the cicadas are just singing pretty lullabies
for some time I thought there was a ghost,
still nameless, but there he goes again,
a little too much to eat,
ashamed, he left without saying good-bye
the best thinking isn’t done
before the morning, coffee taken slow,
it’s the moment before a break
when something forces the lungs open for truth to be admitted in.
Before the baby
were the arms that formed bridges
lying there, sweetly
Remembering what childhood once felt like.
When it is time to consider moving on,
I sit alone, listening
To only hear flies buzzing
Around the body of a person that has already passed
How is it that I can infuriate a nest of hornets
only to be spared by their forgiveness,
yet I can be stung by my own kind
while, or for, being gentle and quiet?
I asked you what you wished for
Direction, you replied, the thought lingered like candle smoke
Later you would come back, weeping
Who’s direction then, I wondered, did you take?