Puff Of Smoke Poems

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

in the night, strong winds
knocked the robin’s nest from our porch—
tiny losses, fragile and blue.

Add it to the list of losses—
that ever-lengthening list
we each of us carry
through our coping—
a house in the woods, travel,
books and food, tears,
Sex and friends and wine
and laughing
and dancing, badly

Some years,
losses flow by us,
fast current we can step into
or away

Some years, our losses are boulders piled on
holding us frozen in place

But even boulders wear down
Eventually
become stones we carry in our pockets

By now, by our age,
all our pockets are full to overflowing
and still
we add more

Lucky. Lucky us to have loved so well
and been loved so well
That we have so much to carry

early spring trees, newly green—
They might as well be shouting, Hope
with each unfurling leaf—
I put down
my box of worries
at their feet,
their roots spread and veining the ground—
Look up, through their half bare, half green branches.
Until I put it down, I hadn’t noticed
how piled up, how heavy that box had grown.
Now, breathe easier in all this green

in winter-dead grass
wild violets spring up
alive demonstration
of the season’s next move

Another day, another poem that writes itself—-

Power line workers
cut huge, meandering branches
from the interfering trees

Blossoms
Falling
Everywhere

Falling on the chainsaw men
and the sidewalk
the road
the children walking home from school
and on the clean-up crew—
men with rakes and push brooms
hard hats covered in flower petals

leave the Easter vase

of tulips past their prime

for one more day—

heart-stuttering reminder

of where 

of when 

beauty can be found

There are decades of fantasies and fears,
gossip and unverified rumors about
Retirement—
as a tropical paradise
a sad, dank apartment
a rollick of grandchildren
loneliness
travel and adventure
lost luggage
new purpose

All those old delayed dreams dusted off,
grown lovely or loathsome through the years
Different lenses, different mirrors
reflecting all our jumbled
and most secret dreaming selves

Life with the guardrails down,
calendar boundaries
not just stacked on a shelf in the
garage for spiders to enjoy—
Retired is the aftermath
of a bonfire—
every guardrail, every old calendar
burned in both
glee and apprehension

We’ve lived a long time and learned
the lesson long ago and over and over—
Nothing matches all the hope
or dread we build around it

Every thing becomes possible—
what joy
and
what terror
And today?
Today it is so small and simple—
linger in the sunshine
for another poem
because there is
Enough
Time

show faith despite the snow
and despite that one thin patch of ice
that will not sacrifice itself to the sun

Throw away your mittens
truly wasteful but in desperate times
a symbolic gesture is needed
A sacrifice in kind, a sign that you believe
Spring is almost here

In the right circumstance, any two
objects can snuggle their words tight together—

tulips and butter, for example,
are not likely companions
inside the middle of a poem but

These tulips on our Easter table?
Nestled in their long green leaves
orange tulips
edged in yellow
as if we took the time
and found a way
to dip the thin rim of
every petal in sunshine
or butter
to create a flower so lovely
that you lick your lips and murmur,
Delicious

green on the inside
turns towards sunlight
through winter-grimed windows