Being Here

Sitting tonight outside

On a tattered winter-struck patio

Not yet rescued by broom 

And potted things

I’ve mowed the long hardy grasses, weeds 

Twice now in this long

Recalcitrant spring

I’ve noticed many bluebirds

Fewer robins

And this afternoon spotted

My first little brown toad of the season

Hopping away from the 

Frightening sounds of my mower

And truly, watching, as I carefully turned 

Away from her hideout in

A clump of unruliness around

The smoke bush back by the barn. 

The sun is descending and small grey 

Scattered cumulo stratus nimbus fill the 

Western sky behind the firs that keep

The dust from from Bobby’s plowing from 

My windows, opened

Momentarily to admit spring cleansing before

I close them up

For an unseasonably chilly night

The dip in the back 

Opening amongst long, tall

Stands of spruce and fir,

My alleé I call it there, though just an 

Unkempt magic land of burrows, 

Rotting stuff, rust chuff 

From ancient evergreens

Carpeting a path, well-known 

By generations of animals, and 

Through this window 

Bits of peach and gold from the

Disappearing day cast

A blaze 

Nonpareil 

An instant that 

Beckons belief

My hands are cold and

It’s time for dinner. 

May 18, 2019