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three blankets deep
into late september
the furnace stays off
until the crickets
stop singing
camouflaged
to blend into
its surroundings
a rain barrel painted
with fallen leaves
the fog slow to lift
from the marsh
I hold onto
my blurred photo
of a whooping crane
gift of the bonsai
I believe the pine
knows better than I do
what shape
its life should take
she got to be
so small with the details
you couldn't even see
the stitches she made
with her needle
in the low-sodium,
low-cholesterol diet
there's not much to look forward to
the refrigerator as quiet
as a burned-out light bulb
alone
for 30 minutes
in the examining room
I contemplate the stacks
of expired magazines
as though
they hitchhiked here
from another galaxy
the strange orbs
of pawpaws
fall pockets
of decomposing mushrooms
I often find them
sewn into places
I would never think of looking
as if my life
needed more music
the batons of goldenrod
s w a y i n g
with the windchimes
knowing this book
will end
"happily ever after"
grandma falls asleep
before she finishes the story
a rerun
of the tonight show
the willows listen
to the light
of the moon's monologue
lacking the pizzazz
of madeleine albright's brooches
I am content to have my mood
expressed by the flashes
of another gloomy thunderstorm
echoes of children
in the playground
an acorn
still rolling across
the classroom floor
temporarily blinded
by the morning light
I slowly pass
a bicyclist maneuvering
around traffic cones
on a ping-pong table
with the net askew
it reminds me of a chalkboard
where all the lessons
have been erased
who knows how long it's been
since their last meal
the unplugged stove
with a soup spoon
and an overturned saucepan
with its short tail
wrapped around seaweed
it's not likely the extinction
of the dwarf seahorse
will make the front page news
wishing my son
a "happy birthday" on 9-11
the brief song
of a henslow sparrow
before it flies away
Like me, the henslow sparrow is not noted for its vocal ability but it likes to sing anyway.
outlasting all
of our writings
this fossilized
oyster shell
preserved for posterity
rows of coffee cups
grouped together
like companions
in the grip of each handle
a different opinion
the noncommittal posture
of tree branches
over a park bench
there's no way to tell
if they're lovers or just friends
accompanied
by solitude
it's hard to be depressed
around so many
yellow chrysanthemums
how many dangerous journeys
have started out this way
the monarch butterfly
weaving like a drunk
in and out of the weeds
perhaps they hold the secret
to a successful marriage
the duck couple
ignoring each other
on a sunday afternoon
dwarfed by the faded hues
of a vess soda bottle
I drink in
"a billion bubbles" of dust
from the vacant lot
using the remote control
to turn off an episode of CSI
I'm not sure I want to know
why someone's put a piece of tape
over the mute button
at peace with themselves
after the rain
the resurrection lilies
lining the path
to the hospice
travel brochures
for the caribbean
a splash in the shower
is as close as I'll get
to taking a cruise this year
