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.

These mornings she flits -

a black walnut in her mouth

squirrel light on the fence

It’s been so long -

I am inside the morning, 

weeding under the apple tree, 

slowly leveling stepping stones,

humming a backup for a yard bird band 

with an impressive repertoire.

I sip warm coffee in cool, floral air, 

this morning not running anywhere!