this song, this sacred

spring peeper surround sound at
all hours of the day
this song, this sacred sound of emergence
chorusing in from the south, from the north, from the west and east
heard even through closed doors and windows
heard under star-slammed sky and
noontime sun
heard from the patio where i draw
hearts and whales and stars and tulips
in the five colors of sidewalk chalk in a bucket
heard from the other side
of winter whose final snow (fingers crossed)
fills the dips of the trails
with puddle-pools of water seeping
into forest mud floor


in the sun in the air

the springiest spring feeling
in the sun in the air
flannel sheets flapping on the line
in the wind

a patchwork of blankets
under the burr oak where we picnic
(salmon cakes and potato salad and cheese and bent and dent crackers)
in commemoration of trish’s birthday
all this wild wind moving across the skin
and fine swirl of hairs
of a not-yet-two-week-old
whose animal-eared hood
slips off his heavy head
every now and then

feels like a celebration

something about it i say of the geese calling as they move across the bright blue sky
that feels like a celebration
perched with moonstar the black cat over
by the bike shed i spot
the season’s first two mosquitoes hovering
last supper kris says of my request
to feed the cats one last meal
in response to her request
of her starting the cat feeding responsibilities
while i am still here so that if any questions come up
she can ask me
sharon and i waving
at the oncoming freight train
us above, it barreling below
car after look alike car
we talk over the rumble squeak rhythm
while jack the jack russell braves the sensory onslaught
standing close between us
like chocolate sharon says of the nongraveled section of underpass
rutted deeper than i’ve ever seen before and
dark and rich in color
re-enacting one of our first moments together
sharon and i grasp hands and jump over
(instead of into, this time)
the creek where there is usually not a creek
and exclaim afterwords about
what a good day it is
for a polar dip

the ice strikes

the morning slippery and sheeny
the ice strikes again i say walking
carefully over the thin slick layer
while the ice coated branches
crackle with movement
walking foot or rolling foot my mom
the quilter says suggesting what’s necessary
for finishing this fabulous
scrappy baby quilt
intended for a birdie
it happened so quick mom says
about my aunt who passed away
with stage four lung cancer
gathered around the salmon
from the no-longer-a-brother-in-law
and pasta and salad brought over by neighbors
the note on the farewell gift reading
because every transition and every tour needs one of these
and wrapped inside the fabric is
a short-shorts emeraldblue sequinned longsleeved plungingneckline onesie
which i pull on over my tights
to dine in

this mighty movement

called by the honking to witness
a sky filled with the great migration
of hundreds upon hundreds of geese
how this mighty movement moves me
to tears every year
there are too many things
to love about this place including
maple magic: the steam rising from the sugar shack as seen from a distance,
the red of the fire stoked underneath the pan,
the warmth of the bricks as we stand next to them peering in
on the sap that has not yet started turning brown
a round of five crowns and rummy up to 250
emory and i lay the blanket out in the hoophouse
where it is warm enough to lounge and card-play and where
despite the gray we are surrounded with
so much light and the sounds
of rain on the plastic roof, the plastic walls,
the doors banging in the wind gusts
emory on the garden shed roof
calling out in his new zealand/english accent
in which i call back to him as we
toss the yellow frisbee
up and down
back and forth
slow and low rumbles
and the quick flashes of light
the season’s first thunder
and lightning
how i turn out the lights
and strike a match to turn the candle on
to watch nightsky flicker

lean a little

the view from the old maroon nissan two door hatchback
permanently parked on a hill in the neighbor’s woods
how the forest floor looks almost orange and
how all the tree trunks
in their shades of browns/grays
seem to glow
seem to be arranged on a stage
that goes on forever
em and i taking turns cartwheeling
down the slater’s hill
taking breaks for the dizzyness
before continuing in the bright sun
and cool air
shabbat shalom cynthia says handing me
a pair of hand-dipped beeswax candles
that lean a little
in one direction or another
tonight’s sunset: eyesahdow case
(the kind with whites and light purples and medium blues)

we’re going to be watching meteor showers
with each other for a long time, i hope she says
and i respond with a field of yeses

light snowswirl dusting
on the ground and in the air
in the cold under a bright (clouded) moon
in night-dark
the glowing

since those spring-like days
the squirrels-in-the-ceiling season
has commenced
the peace of nights uninterrupted
with skittering and squeaking and more skittering
from the water world:

The cafe ‘Les Nautes’ in Paris, France, partly immersed in the the water of the Seine river. The swollen Seine rose even higher, keeping Paris on alert, though forecasters said the flooding should peak by the end of the day. – voice of america, day in photos

all the frozen things

the soft smooth tan gray pink yellow blush
of waxwing bellies as seen
from the falling apart porch positioned
under the persimmon trees
the sun singing a spring song
all the frozen things melting accordingly
the sunset color report from several hours north:
first 1970s outer space movie haze
then now it’s orange marmalade

rather than coil the root back in
i cut it off at the base
where it was once attached
and toss it like a bone
saying here, it’s yours
what a guy!
i ask rachel to tell tony
who’s making dinner when she can’t uncurl herself
from the ball she’s in on the couch
and i can hear him say i’m manning up
in response in his light and high sweet voice
which makes us both laugh
for a good minute
it’s not that it wasn’t full on/that i wasn’t full-in

it’s just that i wanted someone here more she says
while i rock the light pink stitches
up down up down
through all the different colors and patterns of patched fabric
under the bright bulb
from the clamp light