in rainwet sandals

Pursula Legume i somehow come up with
this year’s halloween costume
wherein i will dress like ursula le guin
but carry a ginormous weird purse
and then a stack of books Pursula Legume has written
including the Lentil Hand of Darkness
walking in rainwet sandals
down the hill to the mailbox and back
it is probably too cold
to wear sandals anymore
but i don’t want to let go
of summer yet
the pile of chopped garlic
on the cutting board
to add to the beans and ginger

orphaned by climate change

the distressed (or distressing?) mew mew mew mew mew
squeaking out from under the cool shelter

of the old-barn-turned-gift-shop porch
which i take as cat speak for
mama? mama? mama? mama?

the tiniest bit of string cheese
i offer in my open palm
to a seemingly bewildered kitty
wearing an asymmetrical pattern
of gray over half of one eye
but not the other
orphaned by climate change i say

about this too young kitten
appearing after the week +
of historic rain and flooding
the cool edge in the air
that makes the hot sun too hot
and the cool air too cool
which is more uncomfortable
(think: cold sweat)
than 85 hella humid sweltering degrees
the days’ sun gathered
in a square poof and shining back at me
from overhead
in the dark hours (coming earlier and earlier)
while i type

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