the work of wings

today is the kind of day that involves positioning
this year’s brassica starts in the best amount of sun
in south facing windows
just before pulling the crispy dead remnants of last year’s brassicas (kale, collards, broccoli)
out of the garden and hauling them
in towering piles
off to the compost heap
if i knew a song about full circles
i’d sing it
_______

rachel k telling the story of a woman telling her story
of what it was like the day her father was deported
(she reports how the woman tells it matter-of-factly, then breaks down, then continues telling)
on the other end of the line
eternally chopping and sauteeing onions
while i place her (cordless phone on speakerphone) on a five gallon bucket
and trim the zoids
in the sun of the south side of the house

_______

light moving through the 
purple-pink of home-preserved grapejuice
mixed with home-carbonated water
in a glass on the kitchen table
_______

load by load i carry sheets, blankets, more blankets
to be pinned to the line
and lifted in the bright and warm breeze
because it is that kind of spring day
before the coming of the next kinds of spring days that show signs of freeze and temperature drops
_______

almost sunset
sky filled with a flurry of calls
Vs and Vs of geese
pointing northwest and flying low enough
i hear the work of their wings
_______
light fare  i say about the dinner i’m about to prepare
and later (as i’m preparing it) laugh at the ridiculousness of the phrase
and ask who even says these things, besides a writeup 
in a weekly paper in the restaurant section
_______
when darien opens the front door
to go across the street to start the night’s fire
the sound of spring peepers washing in
and then washing out when he closes it
_______

it ain’t right darien says dean said about a parent
having to bury a child of theirs
(he said this while at the side of his daughter who’s in a coma
and likely will not make it through the next few days
_______
everything bathed in moonglow
including the curves of slater’s hill
and the chips of wood where all the splitting happened
and the gravel road that stretches
around the corner

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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