Surrounded by Daffodils

Toast brown, he and the mule plow ridges

for tobacco. A sweet spring flows

from the hills to his forty acres.

Waiting for autumn’s crop, the weathered barn

stands empty. Mornings, his wife tends

chickens, scatters corn, collects eggs.

She makes biscuits and milk gravy

from last evening’s meal, hangs wash to dry.

Now, driving past on the four lane–all that is left

is the listing barn covered with poison ivy,

chinking between the timbers dried

and falling out, metal roof peeled open.

Furrows are filled with Little Blue Stem

and Queen Anne’s Lace.

And the old stone foundation encircled

by the daffodils she had planted.

                                                                        Front Porch Review

                                                                        Jan 2018

Seeing My Mother

I avoid looking at myself in photos and mirrors.  As I grew up,

the mirror on top of the dresser greeted me every morning.

In an early photo, I have a gap-toothed grin, my left ear sticks

out from under my riding helmet.  I hold the trophy out I front of me.

In high school, I saw someone who wanted to fit in, I wore a paisley shirt

(big at the time, knee socks weren’t) to the dance.

I like myself best in the photo of me and my horse sailing over the jump,

hands and arms in line with the bit, heels down, toes forward.  The latest picture

shows me hopping over the log, hands grabbing mane and toes sticking out.  When last

at home, waking to a morning of cleaning closets of the clothes that my mother would no longer wear,

I sat on the edge of the bed, stared back at myself, lines around the eyes, longish face,

left ear sticking out.  These days, I try not to see myself in the mirror that came with the house

but sometimes catch a glimpse of my second self when walking by.  I look

at my reflection before brushing my teeth, I see myself becoming my mother.

                                                                                    Unbroken Journal

                                                                                    Dec 2017

Barred Owl on the Road

It looked like a rock

until it swiveled its head,

yellow eyes looking at me.

It was sitting on

the side of the road, its drab

wings brushing the ground.

I leaned down to pick

it up, its talons softly

grabbed my arm, its

barred wings fluttered

in the wind of the passing

cars.  It clung to my arm.

I tried to cover it with a

bag.  It flew instead.

                                                            Plum Tree Tavern

                                                            summer 2019

Coloring Outside the Lines

The sky darkens to the ace of spades.

I drink coffee as thick as tar

while the tires whine on the road,

headlights carve a light

into the cave of a country night.

Tomorrow is the funeral, her bruises will be covered

by the mortician’s powder.  I can’t find the flower

of her favorite color, it doesn’t exist.  Dark purple roses

will have to grace her coffin.  The thunderheads will blossom

and spill rain on the raven sitting on the steeple.

                                                                                    Third Wednesday

                                                                                    Spring 2018

Under the Sidewalk

Ants, at home

in the crack of a sidewalk,

dig their corridors,

tend eggs. If disturbed,

they move pale eggs further

into the bowels of the passageways. 

Their tiny dirt volcanoes

hide this from our eyes.

A road of scent is left

for ants to follow

to the grasshopper;

two or three wrangle

its wing to the underground. 

Worker ants store their larder.

Soldier ants will emerge

with the collapse of their entrance.

All this hidden from our turmoil above.

                                                                        Muddy River Poetry Review

Gravel Pit Pond

To land, the Canada geese

ski onto the diamond water. 

Sixteen Mute swans, white

as the October moon, convene.

It is an oasis in winter, snappers

and sliders rest below. Ring necked ducks

splash, tipping their white bellies to the winter sun

before tucking their heads to sleep. 

Flashing its white cap, a Hooded Merganser

signals the hen is his. The canvasback

and redhead visit in the harshest of cold.

Both swans and geese nest on the island,

no squabbles over space.  Spring brings

flotillas of goslings. Gray in their downy coats,

they glide behind their parents, oblivious

to the snapper, its fist of a head

barely breaking the surface.

Spring warmth whiffs on winter’s breeze

as ducks graze the bottom weeds. 

Days grow longer, the breeding grounds call. 

The ducks, mostly paired now,

wait for the winds that push them northward.

One night, perhaps by the moon,

they leave the pond to the Mute swans.

                                                            muddy river poetry review