Sorry Morning
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?
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.
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.
