Puff Of Smoke Poems

5:17
and birds
sing
in the wet, dark hour
before sunrise
They shake out today,
this new created fabric,
smooth its wrinkles.
Early commuters weave
through with headlights
with windshield wipers
to guide their stitches.
While you slept,
they made this for you.
Good morning. Love.

Before you bloom
and leaf out
let me write
and remember
how each morning
your bare branches
reminded me
of flight
Shaped as you were
like a blue heron
bent to pluck a fish from the
bare ground which was,
to complete the image,
forced to stand in for a still pond.
And as we three—
you, me, the hard bare ground,
Change as we will
in the season ahead—
Let’s one of us recall
that beneath all your full leaf glory
there is another glorious self—
hidden blue heron

One friend suggests cheese
instead of peanut butter.
Someone else swears by dog food
which also
doesn’t work.
Packing to leave for a long weekend—
I pry open the Hav-A-Hart,
dump the uneaten kibble in the trash
and prop the empty trap
Open
on the kitchen floor
to prove to myself
that I do.

to sleep and wake in late April—
both sides of the night
darkness fills with busy songs
of springtime birds
carry straw and sunlight
to build the new season, again

over morning coffee
I conclude—
joy is curled up
in the strawberries—
It hides at the tender spot where
green stem dives into red center
Let us indulge today
in all this offered sweetness

the birds answer when she knocks
Springtime drifts through the opened door
on a cloud of green perfume
trailing petals

When you catch the scent,
look up before it’s over

This note is for you, and for me.
Springtime needs no scribbled reminder
She arrives
full of luscious promise
whether you and I
are here
whether we notice
or not

I picture it as if a person
put down the green thread they carry—
thread of remembering
the long journey of the past
names of places and objects—
(is it cologne? Is it deodorant?
It is that thing you spray
to change how the world smells—)

Once dropped, the thread
tangles itself around impatience
frustration of lost moments
gets trampled in the grass
whole sections break off certain years,
long connections between
people go missing or must be improvised—
a substitute name here, a decade there
until —
Who knows? But for now it is knotted
covered in mud and so hard to picture it
bright green and flowing

long-haired man
balances pizza box
as he unlocks the street door
to rickety stairs.
above, there’s one lit window
with a plant on the sill

I wonder over the nutritional value of a large pizza at six a.m.
The part of me which can never stop mothering wants to call out to this stranger, offer to make him some scrambled eggs maybe.

but then
I look up and see the plant
green, thriving
in a walk-up apartment
and decide he’ll be okay.
Imagine his relief
if he knew of
my confidence in his destiny

early spring
cold-toed crocus
and a shiver of daffodils

I shift from carrying tiny, toy size purses to enormous schlumpy bags that hold every thing                       in case I need four pens or a gift card from the holidays or three pairs of sunglasses or a protein bar, a book or a different book or lipstick.
Then switch back again.
In the same spirit, I move from long rambling poems to compact forms, one image, few words.
Here I go again, tumbling

learn to write haiku
from instruction books, pamphlets,
guides, what Not To Do

or

pick up this small book
one poem per page,
perfect

or

go out to the woods,
sidewalk, school
whatever world offers it-
self
up to you

bring a pen