Planting Bulbs

Warm soil still,

the trowel

slips in next

to Earth’s worms

burrowing beneath

frost lines

as temperatures

drop.

I dig

to plant,

spelling green

to push out

of ivory bulb

and tissuey skin

to force a bloom

another year.

She watches,

leaning against

the kitchen sink,

her birds

still hanging North,

‘I can’t wait

to see the

tulips, next Spring.’

An Eclogue: Water Shots

The concrete sizzled     sunshot

sand littered its path blown from the beach

in waved ripples leading to the lake-

peeling off layers of hoodie and Jordan’s,

tiny granules

locked into

the cracked heel

of her sockless foot.

The memo shut off water-

city school kids drown

in pools or beaches,       in puddles collected

on the streets of embattled gutters

or an open fire hydrant.

Carefree,

she followed conspirators to a fountain

built in the renovation of the old beach house

on the south side           usually left out.

Let me do this      away from the corner on the block -

bullets popping me to get someone else -

I need to cool off from this heat - real talk.

Sliding sideways through the circled rifles of water,

she giggled joyously in folly

fearlessly.     her foot on a fountain,

to the delightful screams of others-

she moved,

it shot her.

Nightmare

All we had

were pints

at the bar,

not enough

to hang

a hat on;

shouting

through

the din-

sitting close

to hear,

not connect.

But his skin,

remembered,

covers me

at night

like snow sans

paw prints;

the quiet,

resilient

to interlopers,

muffles

fear-

lullabies a

good night.

For It Is Spring

Snow floats

quietly on evening

vanishing before

hitting ground;

April’s cruel joke

on crocus and daffodil

huddle shivering

under baby's blanket;

sluggish earth

absorbs icy dew

quenching tubers’

winter thirst;

for it is spring.

Little Pink Houses

And I fell in love all over again

Listenin’ to a rock n‘ roll station;

I met my own boy from Indiana who thought-

ain’t that America, we’re something to see baby.

Smart as a whip and head full of dreams,

I blushed, "Boy, you're gonna be president."

I’d slide next to him on the worn leather seat

when he’d pick me up in his Cadillac Brougham,

I would swim in the blue of his eyes as

he whispered in my ear pulling me closer,

"Hey darling, I can remember that you could stop a clock."

And there’s winners, and there’s losers

and I’ve lost him to all these years

But they ain't no big deal ‘cause I am still

Listenin’ to a rock n‘ roll station

and I can hear his tender promise

Little pink houses, babe, for you and me.

Warm Keeps Better Company Than Cold

Cold companion,

black evening

sits unwelcomed,

draperies shut

tight against

icicle'd panes,

wintry whistles

rattle tea cups,

tepid water

sits undisturbed.

Unforgiving,

minutes are hours

tripping seconds

spent in quiet,

numbing senses;

I feel nothing-

even no one

fails to produce

temporary

relief from self.

Some months ago,

the open door

framed leaves budding

against a blue

languorous sky,

lazy sunlight

settled on sills

disturbing dust,

its warmth pulling

stiff out of me.

Cockled company,

the heart beats deep,

rhythmically,

penetrating

extremities

leaving no point

alone to fend

for its lonesome

during springtime

or summer solstice.