Drought Summer

Outside the night drips
Un-rained rain, as I wait for
The promise of deluge,
Knowing that it
May come or it may not.

I come to see the perseids,
But the sky is filled with smokey
Galleons bearing sacred water,
Along with tufty nighttime clouds, and
Grey wisps, grey brush strokes in
Canopy's infinite, mysterious palate,
And I can't see many stars.

These clouds, though,
They float above me as I question,
Looking for the ages' answers,
They float above the singing
Bullfrogged pond,
Above my garden, where
The story is persistence,
Roots digging deep into our
Mother Earth, deep in search of water.

Today I mowed anticipating
Deluge and on a few brief
Occasions in my mowing reverie
Rain split the beating sun with large
Orbs glinting as they pelted me,
But I didn't run for any cover,
Rain the only necessary.

I thought, today, I've only
Mowed this place three times
In this stern exacting summer,
Drought says, I am
Harbinger if you're not
Careful, and so I stop to praise
The light in every sunset,
The glint of drop on leaf and bough,
The smell of relief when
Earth receives some blessed rain.

It's not so gorgeous this summer,
Truth be told, and though
I'm doing all I'm able to,
To care for what I have here, to
Care for what I love,
I have to excavate my deepest knowing,
And in the infinite comfort of
Believing that this all makes some
Connected sense, heart beating life
Thrumming one to one on the
Eternal way to All,
I find myself asking, with
Certainty fringed by hope and question,
Doesn't beauty always shine
In reality's relief?

Finding

Here the Dipper

Here the inexplicable sky

Here the bullfrogs

Here the fox,
Coyote,

Gulp, my brother frog

Sing, my tree frog sisters,

Praise, my starry Milky Way,

Spangling into my infinity,

My unknown.

Oh magnificent symphony,

This night, these stars, these

Far-off layers of lives elsewhere,

We are infinite; 

The bullfrogs say so,

And as I sit, spellbound in night,

Up there 

The stars shine into their 

Most perfect and 

Impossible.

The Family Visit

Down the road the dogs

Are yipping in the heat that finally

Gives in to dusk's respite, and above in

The great dome of heaven another

Jet heads towards Europe, across the

Maritimes, and then the vast Atlantic.

There's little traffic, though,

Here in these skies. Long ago

Someone taught me to read 

The angle of ascent, hear

The singular whirs of engines,

Watch the swoop of direction as 

Taking off, the pilots 

Change the headings, all 

Clues to destination.

Now in these days they made 

To come in the United States, 

This cauldron of unrest and strife,

Fear covering the land like nettles

And neighbor against neighbor, all

Common sense jettisoned to

The uncertainties that heat and dust 

And drought and apocalyptic rains call

From the unsettled knit of elements,

And after all, we're imperfect beings,

Which means we should be scared. 

Now in these days I make to prepare 

The home in the United States

For the ancestors' children's children

Who come because from the homeland

Long ago this is the place that called 

To some of them:

Opportunity, love, adventure,

Solace or escape. 

And there were those who stayed behind; 

I dare say some of these are stories 

We may never really know.

And anyway, 

What a gift they're bringing,

Our family, from across the roiled Atlantic,

They come because somewhere abroad

This place is beacon still. 

They come to bond with us and share 

Ourselves. 

They come with fresh eyes open,

They come because there still is time 

To have some impact  

In the slim shallows of what in life is 

Unexpected and unknown.

The way it's always been,

The way this story goes.

 

Adjusting Attitude

My old friend's old dog is dying.

The world beyond my small dirt patch

Spins so wildly I don't care 

To try to understand,

For now, and 

I forgot a special task,

Neglected to pay a past due bill, 

And sometimes sit, bewildered,

Wondering if it's just me

Or if the axis tilts a bit

In search of beauty's balance. 

A few spots of rain have greened 

The sere view outside my doors, while

Down the road my neighbor hays

His fields, and soon he will be baling.

There is respite in small moments.

I sit outside and listen to the bullfrogs,

And my old dog of fifteen years

Lopes across the straggly lawn to the 

Pond where bullfrogs call. I 

Watch an ordinary sunset start to slip 

And glow golden, fiery, 

Down behind the spruces that screen

My neighbor's fields, and 

Hummingbirds arrive with their little 

Motors revving at the 

Feeder Peter's tied with red ribbon.

In this minute, two, five or more,

I am aware of homeostasis, 

And in this moment I can say I'm 

Thankful:

All is well.

Birthday in a Drought Year

Night dry as ancestors' bones

Parched back into earth,

They return, the ancestors,

We all return in time,

After our sliver of shining light

Flickers and we go to stars.

I step outside to sniff the scent

Of linden, perfuming a thirsty 

Landscape; it comforts me and

In the velvet night I can't see 

The brown, once-green stretch now lit

By fireflies out towards the pond, 

It's very low.

But linden never fails to arrive with

Its reminder that for a few short weeks,

No matter what, 

I will be transported by its heady smell,

Balance in a world sometimes careening,

A few short weeks of balance 

And perfection.

In the nighttime sky the moon hangs 

Sceptered, and there's a hint of

Rain. Far across the rolling

Western miles,

My friend, dear of my teenaged heart,

Pinches herself and

Wonders how it can be

That this is the eve of her 

Seventieth birthday. 

It doesn't do that I tell her

That she's beautiful

And wise, that her gifts enrich 

Each soul whose path she crosses,

And she's struggling a little, though

I know she will arrive at her resolve and

Bloom into new glory 

In her own sweet time, just

As linden's gifts reappear and remind

That while roots go earth-bound deep, 

When seen through branches redolent of

Lime, berry and ambrosia, 

The sky glows ravishing anew.

I wonder when we start returning,

And when the body, rich and pulsing,

Flesh and blood, fears and dreams

Starts to turn to face a brighter light? 

For some of us, we've decades left; 

I think my wondrous friend 

Has decades left, and

No matter what, I am joyful for her,

Grateful for long years,

Our long connection.

Reckoning in a Country Garden

I've been here before,
In past years' ever-changing solstice light
A little unbalanced, I suppose
But I have always been moving
And maybe that's what
This still-point means: to understand
This life is always moving,
Always dreaming and awakening.

Perhaps it's less a reckoning,
More my vision about
The way things ought to be.
So I search for accord, and in
The solstice coming now,
Harvest of persistence, a
Pause in motion in a
Strange unfolding
I see there's much awaiting,
I see some things will change.

Last night I looked up at the sky,
And earlier I'd heard the
Voices of the wind while planting.
And in the winds through
Sere dry grass today, and
Rustling through my dry land garden,
Breeze comes cool
Across my cheek.

In this evening's late and unremitting heat
The sky begins to shift to magic light,
And a promise births:
I will keep my grateful going.

Not Quite June

I watched the sky grow dark

As it closed off some 

Old hang ups, 

Like, am I understood or good enough?

But really, what those others think is 

Not of my will or ken,

It is how they choose 

The order of this life.

I am flawed, as are we all, 

And rather than

Exhausting myself

On anything save what I love

I intend to watch the sky and stars

For signs I may have missed, and

Though I may not yet understand 

Just what it is that I am seeing, 

I am the better, moving

Into this, some strange new light,

And I must say, 

It's been awhile

Since I have seen horizon.