Sunday Evening

In the old childhood days

Home was always filled 

With music, every room,

He even put speakers in the

Greenhouse he built 

For our mother

To help her through

Long Nebraska winters.

Now, the snowing early
Spring fights the season

And I dream of my gardens

While the rest of the world 

Tills, preps, and readies for 

The growing, but 

My house is filled 

With music. 

Fox

Sorting through tinnitus,

I heard the fox tonight.

Last deep time I knew 

She was here, 

She red on blind snow

Hauled herself through drifts;

I know she was headed for 

The den under

The threshing floor,

I think two years ago.

Maybe there were kits,

I never knew, and

Maybe now

Rebalancing.

Although I'm not sure how, 

Spring is coming out there.

Finding

Stealthy, that sky just

Appearing like that up there, 

Jumping into my vision,

As I look through the old skylight,

Brushing my teeth 

On my way to bed.

There, allied, in braided 

Constellations that spangle
The pure cloudless night,

The mantle of patterned
Eons slides inexorably 

Into what is always rising:

Season, magic, change 

And constancy, 

And the stars, oh they 

Rage and twinkle

In that loam of infinite navy.

Still I search, my stolid
Brushing witless, without
Quite realizing

That the mariner's sextant
Is always burnished by moon's 

Every same and mystic

Wax and wane.

Sailing now, the rushing
Carries, and 

It's no big deal. I think 

To myself: really?

You thought this might not happen?