If you think 

you cannot sing, 

hum,

amen or om, 

rap or chant, 

whistle or pray.

Your angel 

will say 

(if you stop 

and listen) 

“doubt be gone!

There is no wrong

way to sing.

I am here 

and can tell you … 

you are singing!”

She is translucent,

with beautiful, blue bell eyes.

Songs are falling asleep again. 

I sing them to her, keeping memories near.  

Last week, she raved about Warren,

Warren who lived next door

and says they are married. 

 “He’s studying to be a doctor,”

she told me yesterday, with pink lipstick on,

wearing her knitted turquoise top,

linen pants and socks with red hearts,

blue bell eyes full and reflecting light.

Today, when I visit, she is in bed,

her eyes a waning crescent.

Warren’s been moved to memory care 

and she can’t remember his name. 

There’s folly at my backyard feeder 

fluttering off and scooting over

sparrows vie for nuts and seeds 

and raisins I’ve thrown in.

“There’s plenty for all!” I call from my window 

as they flock and aim for coveted perches.

The feeder in constant turn and sway, 

is empty in less than a day!

Tan as sand and white as cream

with lightest orange beak and feet, 

males with black chins and bibs,

small enough to rest in my palm.

From feeder to ground to trellis to tree, 

chirping and flying they are back again 

for more nuts and seeds and raisins 

and shenanigans!

Eating hate stew 

brings out the worst in you,

equal if you’ve made

or dined on it.  No longer free,

you’ll see everywhere enemies.

The door held open,

inside the table set

with chair pulled out,

ready for you to sit.

You choose.  Just know

eating love stew 

brings out the best in you.

You’ll see the best in me.

Every bite will nourish everyone

and we’ll share a morsel of heaven. 

Reading S.P.

I am a flicker to her candle

crumb to her cake

letter to her novel

pebble to her lake

I am a paw print to her lion

flake to her snow

ray to her noonday sun

tent to her chateaux 

She has claws to my filed flat nails

She’s a cheetah in every line

Too full to follow, to follow too yellow

I am running out time

This sallow, sorry morning

I water the garden before the sun is high,

and count many dawning yellow-white blossoms

on just one tomato vine.

Every day I am wondering,

how far is love to reach?

- and now I heard of bombing - 

There’s water on my hands and feet.

There’s water on my hands and feet

and in the air around me.

How far can love reach

on this sallow, sorry morning?

Two and he carries

a book half his size

to the register!