WINTER WHEAT
Octobers, we would watch it sprout
and wait for Spring to grow. I hung to the back crease
of Dad’s pants. Short enough to walk between his legs,
like wind weaving through straight, green

stems of May. Don’t remember when the stalks
yellowed. Gradually, seed heads began
to bend, from top to last kernel. June, the harvester
separated wheat from chaff. The tractor blade cut low,

the hay rake windrowed, baler spat square bales
until the field was stubble like his face. Thirty Octobers later,
he is too tired to shave. His gray hair, a field of weeds.
He uses a walker, stiff like straw stalks.

RED HANDLED KNIFE
Longer than I have know most of my friends,
I have had that knife. Bought it in Paris.
Small, plastic handle same length as the blade.
We were going to have a wine and cheese party
in the room. Be cosmopolitan.

You could take almost anything on the plane
back then, so I packed it in my bag. Since
then it has followed me to Memphis,
Hillsborough, a few camping spots.

Along the way, I must have used it
as a screwdriver, bent the blade.
Now it makes a ripple in the cheese.
I cut up hot dogs to hide the greyhound’s
thyroid medicine. Still pretty sharp,
except for those dents.

And me? I don’t remember the names
of the wine and cheeses. Or if we had bread.
Can’t recall a single face of the people
I shared it with. Rarely think of Paris,
if at all.

Amarillo Bay May 2011

PAPER WASP
A mystery–
black crepe-paper wings,
antennae tipped in orange–
they come every autumn.

I sweep the floor, turn around,
there one sits as if risen
from between the cracks.

Tap, tap, tap-I look up,
another flies at the ceiling.
One, languishing in the
sink’s food strainer, startles me.

The fliers migrate from living room
to kitchen. Some, quite still,
near death I presume. The dog, who
inspects everything, ignores them.

I light paper and pine to smoke
them out of the chimney, put saran wrap
over the floor vents, tape the spaces
between the window and sill.
I have yet to find a nest.

I slap a yogurt cup over each wasp,
slide the envelope underneath, release
them outside. Most wander on the rail.

Limb by limb, legs curl under, wings
fold over the back. Antennae
stiffen, the wasp slips into death.

LOSS
*
The meadowlark perches on the fence
overlooking the remains of its nest. Red fox
and black snake were not the culprits.
The grass was cut and baled.

*
Once a man, twice a child.
Just a few bites of sandwich is all he eats,
she, not much more. His wife watches him fill his pill box,
monitors every breath. Sits with him every night.

*
Arms flapping to some internal rhythm,
a mother pushes her son to the next appointment
in a custom wheelchair: pads hold his head.
She talks to him, no matter that he looks through her.

*
Perched on the fence,
meadowlark sings.

HANGING IN CURRENTS
For each month, the ancients
have named the moons.

The Wolf Moon’s winter
outline is sharp,
stares cold and hard
from high in the sky.
The April’s Growing
Moon is a softer light.
The Hay Moon
of summer stays
butter yellow.

Like the ancients, I gaze
at Orion in his eternal
hunt for Ursa Major.
But I know
that we move
at incomprehensible
speed in swells
of dark matter
and energy towards
our beginning
on a filament as fine
as light.

Third Wednesday
11/2011

TROWEL FOR SMOOTHING (fl?t) n
The parade: bands
Girl Scouts and floats
“float” struck me as strange

VERB:
horses’ teeth are floated
debt floats
ribs float

NOUN:
toilet part that controls the water level
tool used in woodworking
ice cream in soda

When I was younger, I could float
over the world now bad dreams drown
me under dark water

Fade Oct 2011

CLEAR CUTS
No forest over which the red shouldered hawk
can call and display, no oak in which to nest.
The black poll warbler has no stop-over
on its way north, no insects to fuel its flight.
Sun will not be shredded onto the forest floor.
The tuxedoed towhee will have no leaves
in which to scratch, its song will not spill
into morning air. Nor will wild turkey
have places to search for roots and insects,
no roost free from the fox’s hunt.
No shade will remain for the fern to uncoil
or for trillium’s subtle bloom. No leaf mold
in which the centipede can hide.
What’s left is scarred
and weeps sap.

INSTINCT
The two elephant matriarchs
know their herds are nearing
each other. Agitated,
the two leaders trumpet,
pivot in circles,

defending their families. The calf ignores
her mother’s command and wanders
to investigate. The members
of the other herd circle the youngster,

fold her into their midst. Her mother
squeals, her trunk tastes the wind
for the scent of her child. She rushes
the kidnappers, ivory slicing the air,
but the calf

is taken further into the opposing herd.
Her mother rips the trees,
tusks grass into the air, stands
calling even as her herd moves
off to water. Once they take your child,
you have nothing left to lose.

Granny Smith Magazine Jan 2012

AFTER THE RAIN
Stream flows, not quite out of its banks.
Titmouse calls, an echo.
Birch leaf, white flag of winter’s surrender,
flutters to ground.
Spider floats silk between trees.
Rain drops jewel redbud.

Squirrel breakfasts on seeds,
starts a nest. Cuts and balances a twig,
maneuvers it to the crotch of sycamore.
Takes a break, inspects a hole in dead snag,
leaps to maple only to disappear.

Wind tears through greening tulip poplar,
rips tender leaf from branch.
Worm dries in sun, rain-driven
from soil. Ferns unravel by rotting log.
May apples umbrella forest floor.

QUESTION MARK
At the gravel pit pond last year, trees stood tall.
Maple crimson and gold, redbud yellow reflected
from green water to autumn blue sky. Song sparrows
slept in the cedar. Wood ducks swam in the swamp,
sliders basked on the logs.

This fall, someone must have played with a bulldozer.
Gnarled cedar roots reach towards the sky, the maples’
trunks lie half split along the banks, the swamp empty.

In the cool morning, it suns on a cut trunk,
burnt orange wings with silvered edges,
matching black spots on each wing.
Warmed, the butterfly closes its wings,
in the center a tiny metallic question mark.

Earthspeak Mar 2012