Puff Of Smoke Poems

bull frogs sing their song
two quiet crows dream over
the whisper cornfield

Most times, empty
but the wind, the neighbor’s wandering
toddler, my son’s cat, other mysterious
visitors sometimes leave messages
tucked into my shoe
a ladybug or a leaf
a pebble, a frog, some rain
the occasional spider
hot pink geranium petal
tiny crabapple from the next yard
once a missing sock, retrieved from
who knows where by your cat.
Whatever is found, startling
or sweet or nothing at all
I ponder on my morning walk
sleepy attempt to decipher
little mysteries. Do they
mean to tell me what might
happen in the day ahead or
what I missed the night I slept through
or something else I can’t
translate quite yet?

Do the sunflowers decide?
Do they each select a garden,
or the school courtyard
where the baseball team spit seeds,
or my neighbor’s muddy yard?

Next to the street, at the edge
of a rutted dirt driveway
where he parks his motorcycle
one tall and improbable Sunflower
lights the weedy lawn flecked with car parts.
How oddly they are distributed
these gifts of flowers, birds, the gods.
Who know how they choose
the lucky, bemused winners?

From the parsonage steps,
the minister’s sweet wife waves,
calls out across the street
to tell me what she thinks of you.
He is a jewel, she says.
However, exactly what kind of
jewel you might be
we agree,
neither of us
can clarify

between continents
you send me a text
from the airport in Amsterdam
to say you are reading my poems
on the long layover. Meanwhile, far away
(far away? Well, somewhere that is not
Amsterdam—) here, on my summer porch,
I read your message while listening to
a noisy woodpecker working down the street,
the only other traveler nearby.  Amazing.
Amazing we can hear each other
from this distance. Bound together
but also separate, all three of us exactly
where on this world we each
have chosen or are meant to be

drinking coffee before dawn
on the porch
creak of wicker chair
steam rising from cup
minutes pass
Light grows
Sunrise does its
everyday work
No fanfare.
Gradually you
see the world again

In the quiet of July
their tiny faces shiver—
purple, white, soft lavender
all the violas in my garden
call this breeze a windstorm

Thoreau said, “We find only the world we look for.”

Then what world is this?

World where middle-aged ladies
shed layers and let themselves
Breathe
a dream of a space
where bodies rest from
their stories
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World of maple tree birds
and clatter from the kitchen
where (hallelujah) someone else
is deciding the fate of leftovers
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World where, even on vacation,
some ladies cannot stop themselves
from striding with purpose
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World where tiger lilies
congregate in the shade
and lawn mower drowns out
the chatter of lemon water addicts
********************************
World where afternoon is
the hour of opera practice
rising over the trees
Puccini on the breeze
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World of Emily, benevolent ruler
in the world of Ayurvedic massage
her bare feet inked in
birds and flowers
and the ancient Greek words
for mercy and grace
********************************
World where a woman in faded flannel
greets the view with arms spread wide
as if she is here for lessons about flight
carried by last night’s dreams of birds
they guide her gaze to the lake below
and sing, Lift your plaid flannel wings
Catch the air, Glide.
********************************
World where one by one, more appear
singly or in small pairs
eyes sleepy, hands empty
hair in messy braids
holding only one thing, loosely
the incredible luck
to be here
********************************
World where everyone meets the little birds
chubby and well-fed and content
juxtaposed with us, mostly human,
mostly women, tending towards
sharply thin, tending towards
Seeking, with an intensity
unfamiliar to these birds
birds more closely characterized
as not seeking but browsing
********************************
Whatever else this world carries
it held this moment:
Women’s words falling like petals,
vowels all over the clean wood floors
while out the window
a man sings in the flowers
what can you do but smile
in this room of big music
A bell that continues to ring
********************************
World where, while the rest of us slept
someone raked the sand
into cool rows of
perfect beach front

Likewise, someone
washed the dishes
cleaned the bathrooms
is even now cooking
breakfast for the rest of us

while I write and
the girl in tie-dye
poses for a selfie
so the world will see
We, too, are awake
********************************
World where I get to sit beneath
a tree, then take this notebook, that tattered leaf
home to my adjoining world
********************************
World that taps our shoulders
Murmurs, Be mindful
birch rustles in sunlight
world carried on the breeze
world we each carry within

Memorize this life word by word
in two tongues—
One, our everyday speech
of lost socks in laundry,
sardines and daisies, fireworks, grocery lists.
The other language, Sanskrit,
mysterious as a distant island
uncharted but rumored, reachable
far out in the middle of the sea

Study the art of cats
at their new exhibit
titled, not coincidentally,
The Art Of The Cat.
The cats of this street
gather early beneath the trees in my yard
bother blue jays and give the red fox
across the field food for thought.
Creatures of comfort and habit
cats gather up cool mornings, supplies
spent extravagantly each afternoon.
Naps in the shade for everyone, they say,
and then do a live demonstration in case you
need a visual guide. It’s the opening
gala, which looks exactly like every other day
of this extended engagement
on display all month, here
in the heat of July afternoons