Spring Diary

Wind up, gusts its many voices,
I heard fox in the night, coyote, now
I hear wind and peepers.

And ground is bursting,
I wander barefooted on spongy new-mown
Grass I should have mowed five days ago,
And in the hovering silence,
Birdsong begins as dusk comes.
We lost a grand old arbor vitae to
Two-years ago the polar kill,
Last summer the drought; the old thing
Just couldn't make it, or
Maybe just the life of tree.
Like mine, just the given life of tree.

Here amidst
Newness as if rare,
Fritillaria and phlox spill over stone beds
And old tree peonies are close to magic
When their yellow blooms,
Foundation stones under
The old barn disheveled now;
Vixen re-arranged them for her kits.

I walk away, heading for the pond,
Wow, I think, here the springing diary,
Swirling words inadequate, so
I snap photos with my iPhone, tho
I can't jettison my words.

In now's suspended quiet,
Four cyclists go down
Our road, sleek into the welcoming end of
Day, they passage as counterpoint
To my interior deep,
Slicing on slim tires, in bright silks,
Helmeted gazes turning slightly, as one
Toward our old place,
Perhaps they smell
The new-mown grasses,
New-mown weeds,
They don't know I watch them flying by
From pond-side reverie.

Sun fades; there is a chill,
Wind's direction's changed,
I wander thru my small pasture,
Back to my kitchen,
Start chopping, thinking about dinner.
We have a new season's evening.
Grateful, I nestle in.

Vixen

April 10

This morning I opened my eyes—

The way the light, or lack of it,

At any certain time looking back at the 

Shadows and the sky

Towards the barn tells me the time,

This morning I woke just before

Daybreak, and then around eight,

Slept for a few minutes more, 

Not the hour I'd hoped.

Anyway I woke straight awake, for a 

Reason, and before

I had the chance to fix my glasses 

On my nose I knew she was out there,

Just the slightest 

Disturbance in the field, 

Some slightly-burnished red

Mama shares my place,

Patient small beast who's made her peace

Enough with us to let her kits romp,

Tumbling through the stone foundation

Of that old barn, grey fur balls 

Pestering her.

I grabbed my phone to take her picture,

Moved quiet, whispered 

Shhhhhhhhhh

And you know, as I stepped shrinking 

From the bedroom's morning dim,

Climbing up on the sofa to capture her

Through upstairs windows, my slightest 

Movement a disturbance in her field, 

As she'd been with mine,

I balanced on my makeshift perch, 

Dug my toes into the sofa,

Watching with no breathing 

As fox and kits disappeared back 

To their den under the threshing floor,

And I thought, all is well this day.

Slowing

Old dog probably has begun her long
Dying well. I watch her sleeping by the fire.
She still lopes to her spots around
The place; once in a while she even heads to the
Pond. She has decided she's
Not interested in going outside
When it's so cold, and under duress,
Either she goes out on her own
Or we give her
A little directional.
The last couple of days, though,
Morning rays warm the wooden
Floorboards on the side porch, and
In late afternoon the patio begins
To heat from western sun.
She trots out toward the back,
Her old woodpile.

It's something close to gift
That I am watching her for how to do this,
Integrity, autonomy, she
Tells me where she is and
Watches me, so I watch her.
All of this is all beginning, all of this is
Ending. In the middle all of this
Is grey-blast neutral,
Passing from one resolve into another.
Meanwhile, glory! Creation's fires
Burn bright, and promise of the ancient
And persistent longer light
Now blooms in dreams,
The magic summer's coming, and
She and I, and she and I,
We have our embers.

Pre-return

Coming home through rain, 

Edge persisting, though where it ends

Is unknowable, and in the widening 

Despair, a friend sends me her photograph of

A tulip early blooming, closeup of rich ruby petals 

About to unfold, brimming into the frame. I 

Drive through rain.

Here we are, on the cusp of spring, and

Otherwise what else persists except 

Sea changes that roil in all directions? 

I look for green, I look for diamonds,

Magic droplets on bare branches, 

Magic the stillness, save for rain. 

The edge of hurt, the edge of desolation, 

I tell myself, stand up now, and 

Don't turn back, because

They have given up, and I don't think 

That I have, quite.

Still, it's hard, the rain is cold, 

There's not much green yet,

Really. Tulips wait, croplands flooded, 

Water runs in rivulets, coursing out

New channels in the sodden ground, 

Streams and ponds 

Out of their banks.

On my quiet road no lights are on 

Though it's grey, dusk coming soon. I feel 

This edge of something, but 

It's not for me to know.

I come in out of rain. 

Return

So they say, or I tell myself

Move on, and so I do. 

But it

Doesn't always work that 

Way. Musing, thinking 

About planting hops, 

Thinking about spring-pruning 

The old climbing roses,

Grocery lists and birthdays coming up

How the sky's starting to turn less

The winter sunset,

I stop to photograph 

A rushing stream in rain, 

Grey skies topping fields

Adjacent to a stand of pine and fir

Some other things, mindless of the rain

There's this thrum that's always

Humming, burning gold, 

I realize I don't know what

To call it, so I think for a minute

You are here, somehow. 

Coming down the road

Home's red rooftops float thru 

Rain, I turn into the drive, 

Sort of remembering where I went 

Taking pictures 

Mud was running in rivulets, 

I was driving through rain

And stopping, into it, and finding it...

I really needed you.