Border crossing

We're in a time of borders crossed

or about to be crossed.

The yard is past the tipping point--

there's no recovering from forsythia--

but as yet we only sometimes think

about telephone calls.

He's sleeping more.

Meanwhile, her gown is hanging on the bathroom door

to get the wrinkles out,

and tomorrow she'll walk across the stage.

Reading life always brings us to the turning of its pages.

Tic

Let this hand repose.

This breakfast placemat can be its bed,

not a tapping ground:

no Morse code spelling out the burden of today.

Hand, you’ve telegraphed all this before;

there’s no news in what you’d say.

It’s my only job,

this letting go so I don't fall,

and I won’t send any other message home.

Winter takes it seriously, his job.

He charges just for showing up,

but he really would like to help you.

Unfortunately, he tells you,

he can’t fix it now;

he’ll have to order the part,

and it might not even get here

till spring.

December 24 2021

Hen came to the deck door,

softly asking;

what, we didn’t know.

We were agog:

we haven’t had a chicken here in years.

But no, you can’t come in;

go back to your lady friends.

She jumped through the railings

onto the crazy lawn,

and wobbled to the big rhododendron

at the bottom of the yard.

Next morning we had to entice her

through the open gate,

so she could run off the wrong way

into the woods.

Google confirms

that my name is a question,

which pleases me.

When I tell you I am Michael,

the proper response is,

“No one.”

My niece asked on Facebook what makes us happy.

I will answer the shapes of stone

and the circles of lichen that bloom across granite surfaces.

There's ledge behind our house that I call Sleeping Dog Rock

for the way its back curves as if in sleep.

Deep folds line it, almost cracks,

which tempt me to a chisel, but I would never wake it;

soon enough, but after we've moved away,

the rock will break,

revealing its indisputable answer.

Leave a heart-shaped stone

in your gravel driveway,

to show it can survive the weight of wheels,

the weight of snow,

the wait for spring.

Don’t bring it inside

where warmth is easy;

think of it living in darkness

hour on day on year.

There’s no darkness

in the heart of solid rock,

and it’s clear what it helps you to remember.

Home is where you all find

a place and a way

to fall asleep together.

I think mostly of the dog,

who chooses over his bed

the narrow space

between our bed and the wall

for the sake of being closer.

He starts and groans

and snores and smells.

I know my daughters are in their rooms,

and she is next to me,

so I can turn out the light

to let the darkness cover us,

and lie down

dreaming in my chosen place.

March 26 2022

Aquinnah

It has been a long walk to this lighthouse.

My mother pointed to it from the lookout.

I was young. There were no fences then,

but beach roses and poison ivy intervened,

and I had to run down the cliffs anyway.

For many years the eye was only

something that blinked, red and white;

a distant acquaintance coming into view

around the final bend in the road.

I was busy doing. I didn’t think of it.

Now my family is here,

and I can ask them to go with me.

There's a specific island triumph,

when you reach a place you have always seen

but could never get to before.

This is a bit like that.

It is surprising to find a lawn.

It is surprising to learn

that I could have visited years ago.

I’m sorry it took me so long to get here.

That’s all right.

You had other business.

I'm used to waiting.

You never know when someone will need you.

January 15 2022

Wading

Our dog wrote a poem:

dog

he walk in

water

dog

in water walk

he walk

in river

walk he dog

he grin

he walk

in river

water

walk

he

dog

The wind respects no flags.

It will hang your favorite nation up

in branches, till it's just a tangled rag,

or wrap it around a pole for the rain to darken,

so it could be any country,

orange, red, green, or blue.

Don't kid yourself. Remember:

We're all the same to weather,

and flags fly only at the pleasure of the wind.

January 21 2022

Crow flies

straight across the powdered sky.

There’s birdsong;

it’s an early spring day in fall.

The season’s at a loss:

I should be sleeping, not waking;

the summer did its work,

and now it’s my task to cease.

It isn’t for me to worry about

the ferment and the chaos of next year.

November 21 2021

The sidewalk runs out here.

I’ll face the traffic down the long slope of road

to the neighborhood I used to see

every sunrise morning, and the ocean,

which has never drawn one fear from me

on the flat pull of receding water.

The beach is just an end point for my walk,

but irony is lively in the salty breeze

when I find that I can’t reach the sand

because the seawall stairwell’s full of slopping tide,

scrubbing steps and stones as clean as air.

September 20 2021

After work, go outside.

Drop the hose end into your watering can

and watch the water rise.

Turn the water off and let the hose

drip onto the ground.

Be fair:

All your plants are thirsty.

June 18 2021

Creating art is a drug like any other; the only interesting thing is that it leaves your hallucinations behind.

May 17 2021

the crabapple tree is like

hey lawnmower guy

sorry I smacked your face but

you won’t find blossoms like these

just anywhere

May 17 2020

IOU

I owe you tulips for the yard,

beneath the arbor vitae.

By the time your birthday arrived

they were gone from the garden centers,

and the women told me I should come back in the fall,

when bulbs will be there ready

to be planted for the spring.

It's a long time to wait, but I will buy them.

Please keep this so you’ll remember to remind me.

May 9 2021

As yet light rain.

Two turkeys on a neighbor’s lawn

go unregarded.

He is

(buoyant rapturous eager riotous frantic)

loud,

alarm bell for the neighborhood,

howling other dogs awake

and announcing, like it or not,

that day is here.

No single word describes a morning hound.

May 1 2021

In spring, dogs walk over dead leaves

just as in fall,

but it’s all leftovers:

the yellow grass,

the threat of last-gasp snow,

the clouds both ominous and featureless.

It's a used up world,

with only flowers to prove me wrong so far,

and we really need the sun

to make us shine.

April 8 2021

Like knowing how to put on a shoe really well:

These things take time,

and you can be well into adulthood before you catch on.

Amazing how long you can live without learning,

especially given the relief of finally understanding

how to do it right.

March 9 2021

I Won't Call the Ocean (Version 1)

I won’t call the ocean

at the end of the street a wall,

fool my eye how it wants to.

I can’t live with that kind of limit;

I need to see the slate as never ending,

and on it written the lyrics

to the song of the circling world.

April 4 2021

I Won't Call the Ocean (Version 2)

I won’t call the ocean

at the far end of the street a roof,

fool my eye however much it wants to.

I can’t live with that kind of limit;

I need to see the slate as never ending,

and on it written the words

to a song that encircles the world.

April 6 2021

On a chilly winter day in spring,

I walked my dog, as is my wont.

Stoic daffodils wore masks

of beautiful endurance,

and reborn birds sang patience

to tell me I could do this.

Summer’s just a little further on,

and you’re armored now

against the dying wind.

April 17 2021

Watch the rock and moss continue,

one to weather,

one to grow.

So still.

April 26 2021

There’s a damp feeling of cellar to the spring.

Always a dark sky to be felt in the offing

with silent memories of thunder,

and mud abounds.

It’s the sort of thing you take, though,

when your back has had it with cracking

from the weight of the snow you lift or blow.

The pagan dread I feel some days

at the feel of life reviving

gives heft to the eagerness of sorting seeds

and planning forest walks with boots on

and rising hope for our companion.

February 24 2021