Puff Of Smoke Poems

So far, so good
thirty minutes into the day.
The way each year my friends
thank Guinness for being their
music festival sponsor
I remember to thank my body—
this body short and strong enough
carries me, my soul and my heavy zigzag brain
through all our days and specifically
I say thank you to my feet—
these short squat toes
nails painted fiery orange
Hello, I say, thank you, I love you
to each chubby digit now
wiggling a bit under the weight
of all this unexpected attention

truth in advertising:
orange monarch rests
on the butterfly bush

This year, I said
Will be Different
(as all years are)
This year, I will build a little nest
of words in the middle of the school day—
A place to look away from all this noise and
joy, frustration and talk, bells ringing.
A place to burrow
into words. Five minutes. Ten.

for three days,
this blank folded paper
on my desk

If I was an athlete
I’d be a mountain climber
the whole point—don’t give up
don’t sit down and let snow cover you
keep moving up the mountain

this road through cornfields—
miles of stalks taller than men
Tomorrow, all this
will be plowed fields
ready for another season

morning moon
through birch tree branches

two old friends
who never tire
of each other’s company

low fog over the Berkshires
jet contrail dissolves
above me,
above the lake
and the calling crows

crooked pine
at the entrance
to the yoga retreat—
a signboard without the complications of alphabet
Look, it says—our paths
are alike
not straight
but ever towards
Light.

cardboard box of cups
left by the side of the road
rainstorm fills them all

rainy morning
coffee on the porch
last of the blueberries
in the blueberry colored bowl

car in the driveway, ready to go
your necklace hangs from the mirror
blue agate oval
glued-on circle of tiny pearl beads

reading the the local magazine
from the closest city
happy DIY article about an old student

weeks of travel ahead
to be with friends
and beauty

right this minute
propped on the edge of this covered porch
rain falls straight down, steady as a painting
and me, here, leaning
semi-dry feet
and a head full of
so many stories

when my daughter
speaks to me in that too patient voice
voice I know
voice I likely taught her
voice I use on my own father
voice I hear as condescending
Something in me shrivels

Here we are, again
Me with little packages of words
Mismatched
Ill-fitting for the occasion
Or wrong for the weather.

After so many years
You would think
I’d be better at packing
Better at choosing the right
words. But no.
Always too many
Wrong mood
Wrong color
What’s next?
Keep practicing
Or stay home and
Be quiet.

deer came in the night
ate all the green beans
and tiny zucchini from
my next-door neighbor’s
garden so when
the woodchuck who lives under
the shed where my next-door neighbor
on the opposite side
stores metal things with gears
and wheels, also pieces of wood,
random lengths of siding and
one woodchuck or possibly
a whole woodchuck family—
When the woodchuck waddle-scurried
his foraging self across my lawn
to the feast next door only tomatoes
were left and those are not
his favorite.