March I

Water, Rain, Birds, and Birdsong

To those who have been following along, at least through February, you’ll notice some motifs here. They sprung out of their own volition. Water, rain, birds, and birdsong. Hope you enjoy.

HCE

Neuron (3/8)

The snow shrinks 
from the tops of the big backyard rocks 

These, the litter of last year
are showing for the first time 
speckling white snow 

The old vines grow on everything 
like brain stem 
old pathways 

And I stand
yet to be fired
the size of a neuron


Karate (3/10)

On the first hot day of the year 
as a season melted 
and the next grew from unseen seed underneath  

I walked to the commuter rail
into the arteries and the beating heart 
of Dudley and West Cottage 

finding like I often do
that it's easier to smile when the sun is out 
on a walk alone 
and seeing scenes that remind me 
that I'm alive and very definitely here
in this place for this time 

On the way
an older sister took her two 
twin sisters to karate practice 
walking past and behind me 

Then an hour and a half later 
I passed them in the same place
going opposite directions again
both of us 
the two twins rehearsing karate commands
in Spanish

with big backpacks, about the size of them 
over their proud, sturdy white bathrobes 

To the odd observer 
which is you 
it would have seemed that we just traded places
for an hour and a half 

That I had waist-level problems in need of 
discipline or snapping in half

And they needed not much more 
than the presence of any kind of person 
to fill the space 
that two little martial artists leave 
while at practice
walked down by their older sister

Because after all, I was only throwing a frisbee with friends 
catching a dinner plate out of the air, thinking without thoughts
squinting into the sun 
and throwing it back into the direction of the setting sun 


The Winter is Over (3/10)

My heart is deep
with the cold, the emptiness
that has of yet
been filled with deep snow

Deep is the hurt
deep is the worry 
that carries me like an anchor 
out of the days of sunlight 
and into the darkness
without sleep to quiet me

Deep is the silence of my learning 
that he really is 
a God who hides himself 
covered in the shadows of a short winter day
and feet of snow
and clouds like plaster 

Deep too was the sun 
turning ice back into water 
and weeks of snow into wet earth
where grass starts to grow green
and everything learns to flower again
flower, somehow, out of death buried and forgotten 
invisible

The smell of sunshine 
pours through open windows again 

the smell of earth before it's pretty 
learning the meaning of that word, spring
learning before teaching in color and shape

The cardinal sings in the leafless tree 
to my back 
more than I've heard ever and surely 
for who else but me
and the song is familiar, deeply

He only knows one song 
and a call
the poet, discontent until he has said today 
what's on his puffed red heart
what he could not sleep until saying to himself 
and then to this new air 

he sings of the change 
the winter is over

My deep calls to deep
in the warmth of this resilient day 
still quiet for an answer 
but looking 
maybe into all of this like a dim mirror

This, the reflection 
looking back at me 
and showing 
what everything around me but me sees clearly
as the image, the inspiration 
for flowers out of cold, frozen ground  


Scooping Poop and Not Getting Paid

The yard is a swamp 
from all three feet of snow 
falling into it 

so that my boots suck
out at each step and fall into each next one 

And with my neighbors shovel and a mostly 
broken rake 
I collect something like six months 
of the dog's leftovers 
nice and liquid from the moisture 
uncovered at levels and points in time 
like the fossils of one
very regular animal

From the deepest part of the yard
the kitchen window looks like the top of a tower
seen from the shit

from the exact account balance 
that would leave someone here
mid-week, mid-workday
collecting poop for free
recently rejected by Home Depot 
for an hourly position

After about an hour 
in the determined focus 
of this job of no thank you's 
and maybe no end 

The poetic itch did not itch me 
the job was still shit
I wasn't in the mood to dilute it 
make light or like of it 

And too much time motionless in thought
would have seen me sinking 
into the slow bubbling mud 
ice and poop

But somewhere in the midst of it
far from the end 
I looked up 
at the rarest kind of day 
when rain was beginning 
first in the wind 
and in the invisible vapors of water 
off the ocean 
dancing near me like fireflies 

Where the clouds turn dark 
and rich with nectar 
but the sun still shows gold in the west 
as the day wears out 

and only I noticed
in all the world 
as the changes came and held tension 
if even only for a moment for me.