Puff Of Smoke Poems

Behind the barn, his old boat waits.
She expected to go on forever in the waves,
expected minnows, men with fish hooks, nets,
tall tales, the occasional mermaid.
That’s all long ago, those blue water memories.
These days she’s crowded with saplings—
autumn leaves dance and fall as she studies
months upon years pass
while she concentrates on becoming a forest

lunch on the restaurant porch in drowsy sunshine
bees keep knocking against the ginger beer, the white wine,
plate of cheese and apples
all of us saying our farewell to warm autumn
Bees grow bolder, persistent in the warmth
we bat them away with more ire

Later, just before rain,
we buy baskets of Concord grapes at the farm stand
We shake the baskets—a bee or two will burrow
deep into the dark purple fruit
bury themselves in color and sweetness, slow moving or still—
these we gently nudge onto the farm counter
into a last splash of sunlight
to warm their chilly, sticky limbs
and let them fly once more

Ordinary Wednesday—
plain brown wrapper of a day
bursting open at the seams—
these autumn hills stacked
with trees who make their own light
Redorangegoldgreenyellow
repeat and sing their loud color
croon it to the gray sky—
Hills so vivid they are the whole poem.
Put this down, now
go on out
and see for yourself

black birds call from the pine tress
I’m Here! over and over
and
then
this little pocket of quiet
in between

weed-filled yard, tired old house
but
bright hydrangeas beckon
could this be your door?

We can’t stay here
not in this house
not in this space
between us
not in this space
between before And
after

No clinging can make the liminal stay
but it is
Here For Us
right now.

Here, now.

Breathe it in.
Breathe it in despite
the wildfire air
of worlds and bridges
already burned.

Keep moving, and move fast.
If you slow
or (worse)
stop
what you see
will scare you.

It will be debt
or a dead fawn
Lack
or a predatory wolf
Feeling stupid
or a flood.

Then I remember—Rules
Are stories I made up
So don’t believe them all.

Truth is,
when I said slow down,
Look around,
The first thing I saw
was a snail with a green and golden shell
snailing along through the grass
and because I slowed
he survived the dogs and I
who were, only a moment before,
busy barreling forward through the world

This morning, finished reading Joy Sullivan’s poetry collection, Instructions For Traveling West. My book review—

I dog-ear only books to keep—

Thank you, Joy, for stirring up

words–

alien, familiar, culpable,

blessed as a fresh

tomato, a half-eaten pear,

red lipstick,

French 75,

hips and longing,

a diving creature of 

the deep blue

raking last year’s leaves
find this tiny galaxy
buried in the dirt—
wonder who
dropped this chunk of universe
here in our driveway?

while I tend gardens, weed and plant,
mulch and sweat
and yell at the dogs
to not pee on my dahlias—
All that time,
quietly alongside me the
wild Phlox—purple, pink, white
bloom in the world
everywhere else—along paths,
side banks, in the woods,
even at the edge of the driveway—
wind sown reminder
to look up
to not try so hard
all the damn time