Long Evening

In this time of the light,

end of day but before night,

when sun begins its evening sprawl,

our shadows barely show at all,

outlines grow ever duller

while blossoms, serene in brilliant color,

scent of violet, rose, and musk

perfume the air all cloaked in dusk

Under nature’s beauty spell,

we stroll about like all is well

though we wear masks and watch our spacing

knowing the risk that we are taking

may be low, but nonetheless,

a danger that we must address

as day comes to its nightly close,

a colorful palette in repose

We head home from our long walk

passing tree, leaf, blossom, stalk,

houses rimmed by bushy hedges

that may be rounded, or have edges,

other walkers keep their distance

in mutual respect for existence-

if only this had always been

for friends and strangers, lovers, kin

Appreciation for all that nature is,

not sacrificed to human biz,

oceans, mountains, valleys, lakes

clear air and water, for all our sakes,

creatures that swim, fly, crawl, and run,

everything beloved under the sun

from trees and plants, to bees that buzz

let’s keep it all as is, not was

What Grows

What do you grow in your garden there,

from seeds you tended with water and care?

Did they surprise you, when up they sprung,

delicious enough to delight the tongue?

Turnips and radishes, rounded in girth

rooted happily in the rich earth

Snap peas and melons, both with their vines

one travels up, while the other reclines

Potatoes snooze deep in the ground

spreading all over in a manner profound

All kinds of berries, of sweet tart flavors

to satisfy any dessert cravers

Cherries, apricots, plums, are all growing,

figs, Asian pears, their bloomers are showing

Lettuce in pots, and there’s Meyer lemon,

(a rhyme for that word leaves me hawing and hemmin’)

Broccoli, luckily, likes colder weather,

while others reject the chill altogether

Flowers, they flourish already this year,

perhaps knowing humans need color and cheer

All the euphorbia seems quite euphoric,

and the rhodies are practically phantasmagoric

Here in the garden, beyond human woes

snapdragons snap and dance on their toes

Whatever you’ve planted or whatever you’ve not,

the seeds of them both, well, that’s what you’ve got 

No Fear

The rain has left puddleprints

along the sidewalks 

and in the streets,

gurgling through the drains

like a song to the sky

No one is out walking 

but you and I,

delightfully sprinkled

but not sodden

in our sneakers and coats

The rain fears nothing,

not even the sunniest days

when it becomes only a dream

waiting for new clouds

to bring it forth again

The newbud scent

of mulch and flowers

dances through the air,

reminding us, it’s a fine thing

to breathe deeply 

No matter how much human fear

clings to houses and cars,

the rain shrugs wetly

and keeps making puddles

of sheer joy

Sunset Walk

Look, over there,

a pink orange surprise

above the dark outline

of trunk and branch hugging

the horizon

Sunsets, like every leaf ever made,

never look the same,

and the sky never gets bored in its

end-of-the-day palette

of Easter hues

Lately, colors have been heightened,

the crisp green of leaves, bold

contrast to the blushing rose

and white jasmine, whose fragrances

linger long after we pass by

The streets are poignantly empty,

even of car sounds,

and the ground shimmers

in the pale light, as if not quite

substantial any more

It is possible to breathe quietly

under such a sunset,

and let fear and worry dissolve

under the sky

like watercolors

Now They Know

Grief is like this:

everything stops

for you,

but not the world

And you can’t believe

every day continues

when even thought

doesn’t work for you

Others are kind, or not,

but life isn’t one long moment

stretched to raw feeling

for them

And sometimes you wonder

if you are alone

because everything continues on,

while you just try to breathe

Now suddenly, everyone knows

what you know,

grief is like this virus

when everything stops

3/13/20

Come Now,

There are wretched

fights we could have

over differences of opinions,

we could shout

and call each other names,

prove our points again and again

amid the thump thump cadence

of our too-much-human hearts

But the hour grows late,

the climate contrary,

and all the fight in me

would rather grow vegetables

and plant trees

for generations of creatures and people

who may be no relation at all

except by heart

The future

will come unbidden

whether we shake hands

and rise to meet it together

or quarrel with ourselves

to the end, so let us

walk in sweet togetherness

rather than bitter separation

Come now, the sea is rising,

the earth claps her hands

and rocks the ground,

trying with every kind of weather

to reach her fractious babes,

but we cannot seem to listen

over the sound of our own

terrible thoughts and deeds

Haven’t we already proven

that hate makes skeletons

of us all

much sooner than necessary?

And over here, have you noticed

trees are budding along their tips

and the squirrels are basking

in the almost spring sun

What a world of beauty we ignore

in order to prove

we are in the running

for a fast race

to the finish line of humanity,

where no one wins, while

the birds sing the sun awake

and new leaves unfurl

Come now, there is no reason

more important

than the light sparkling from your eyes

into mine, than your smile

sharing this human story,

there is no reason

more important

than this

Thoughts on Poetry

Often when the hour grows later,

poetry’s urgency becomes greater

to visit minds through the ages 

and be inscribed onto pages,

(often working without wages)

Poems, once the right words are found

expect us to find them quite profound,

to appreciate each syllable and sound

as we go and write them down

If we find them true and deep,

we memorize the ones we want to keep,

and poems accept that honor too,

recognizing it as their due

No matter the wit of their lyric bent,

how many metaphors came or went

poems don’t lord it over prose

though they like to keep it on its toes

Life relates in mostly prose,

told as a story as one grows,

but when events bring deep pain

we reach for poetry again

Red Rock

Sit under the red

rock arches

of the past,

where friends and family

have gone to dust

Sift your fingers

through the sand,

tiny fragments

of weathered stone and bone,

and imagine

Some day

you too, will be beyond memory,

forgotten by every human mind

until only the earth

remembers

And yet, every thought

every breath, every laugh

the world collects

into a whole

that is shared with all

You are made of

history, and full of particles

of those you have not met,

every stranger,

self

You may try and try

to make your mark upon the world

and yet, without striving

you have already become

part of this earth collective

An integral part

of past and future

that someday

someone may sift their hands

through