
I used to with a glance and
calculations of forestry
know the age of all the
trees.
A moth fluttering
in a flash
from door
to porch.
Hungry ants
all over the
porch &
the hummingbird
feeder.
Snails on the column-
black against a
backdrop of white-
The Mockingbird-
the name we gave
him eludes my
mind like crafty
fireflies that
refuse to be
put in a jar-
pretends to
be a quail
bob white
bob white
And I am
missing you
right now
tonight.
“Where did the Praying
Mantix- Bojangles!- go?”
You asked.
I replied.
“Or the elusive white
tiger swallowtail
butterfly- you’ve
seen him twice!”
You are sleeping.
Are you dreaming?
And you made me a
bracelet from a
single piece of
white
thread
breaded. Your
longhair now in
headbands, and
what do you call those
hair claw things?
Clips?
Gravel crunching
and a springwaterjug
of rainwater- that
first summer rain-
later today I will
wash your feet
in the keys to
the rain.
In Oklahoma the trains
were choragic- now
it is frogs after it
rains, dog howls,
and sometimes
silence. I miss
those train
whistle
harmonies
dogwalking
housesitting-
you are asleep.
Coyote populations
are on the rise up
and down the east
coast ecologists say,
Poetry of a three fold
consciousness- mayhap
more- Robert Bly’s idea
of leaping poetry from
a post modernist
perspective.
Ducks- ducks wings whistling-
and we really need to wash
the dogs- the Razmanian
Devil’s feet stink- and
poor old Boo-
blind,
deaf,
dementia,
&
severe arthritis-
he will not like
a bath at all.
The now is all there
ever is, but it never
hurts to plan happy
explosions
now
&
then.
Now it is time to scrub
the porch, then waking
you up, dog medication,
and then a bath.
Tags: butterfly, cleaning, consciousness, meditation, moth, nature. insect life, Robert Bly, spirit, spring