Reading Sylvia

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 

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 carrying

a book half his size

to the register!

Who are you at the black walnut tree?

Friend texting poetry - 

poetry diving deep, flying beyond the sky?

Yes. We are not born. We do not die.

We mourn and laugh and sing and cry

together, all together though, 

we do not know.

 Jim, our hobby farm, our hobby farm, our hobby farm

what happened to our safe from harm hobby farm,

our hobby farm?

Our cows and chickens, their cheese and eggs, 

their cheese and eggs, their cheese and eggs

free on the road, free on the road, we saw them free,

free on the road?

What happened to our rescues running, 

our gardens blooming, our warn paths growing?

I could see your house from my house, 

your house from my house, your house from my house 

and rocking chairs, our rocking chairs, our rocking chairs.

John’s call one night was an unset alarm, 

to say there would be no hobby farm, 

no hobby farm, no hobby farm, no safe from harm, 

no jokes to disarm, no upside down charm, 

of our hobby farm. 

Jim, my dear brother,

I still see it.

Afternoon Nap

This chair, where the day’s care

like fall leaves or raindrops,

sets with a sign, where she sees 

her plants and paintings, watercolor 

windows, all light 

as she closes her eyes. 

Share one out quick

days with an aching stomach -

the maw in our bucket is fear, dear Liza.

How can this be?

The lot of slippery, same-old, insane

- fisted against evolving - 

shoves again to the point.

They are ready, aiming, set to fire

on everyone!  

Who am I?

Who do my children see that I am?

Friends, who are you?

Are we to do nothing?

Together, a sea of daffodils, snug

in winter’s layered ground, preparing.

Some know we will unfurl again, 

affirm what we believe -

          flight is inevitable.

We see in our sights our practice

to see the other growing, to grow

alongside, to feel the depths where

         we have come from.

Time is distance -

This garden woven of leaf and sun,

rain and breeze, hands to ground,

          baskets of flowers and greens.