Recovery

Winter's back is broken.
The plows pushed nothing up and down the street
last time it snowed here.
The dog has found new grass to eat,
and sometimes we walk farther.
Monsters never die easily,
and tree buds keep a tight hold on their promises,
but planets always circle.
Only after a weekend do you notice:
The room is brighter when you wake.

February 25 2018

Ceremony

The rock they burned the flags on is an anvil, rusted black by the river
long before the fire. I remember the boy scouts jumping around,
glad to be near the water, and oblivious to the occasion.
I asked the man what was happening,
and he told me what I suspected: Retirement,
following which the ashes would be interred with all due ceremony.
This is one way to say goodbye to things respected but worn out.
I had no image that day of a dog's body and no place to bury it,
or a longship waiting by the fishing pier
to carry a warrior's flaming corpse to sea.

February 13 2018