In early spring, 

when tulips barely crack the ground and buds on lilacs are hardly noticeable

when the greening grass can only be seen as you crouch down and part dead blades

I wish for baseball’s buoyancy,

 I hear Bill King’s call of an A’s home run recorded in my head 

And I smile knowing Dad would love Tulo’s shortstop pirouettes

 

In the singe of summer, 

when it is too hot to weed

I watch the onions tops tip, wait for the tomatoes to ripen, wonder which bell peppers are red or yellow 

And I carefully lift the raspberries so not to lose the ready ripe 

or disturb the hiding grasshopper that nuzzles near a leaf 

I later linger on the porch, 

watching an approaching storm split the darkening sky with loitering lightning 

 

In nearly winter, 

after fall’s fascination with colors has long since waned 

I study the clouds in anticipation of the first silent snow 

and its calm caresses of a blue spruce 

(blue spruce should always be bedecked in snow)

 

then,

In waning winter, 

when the remaining snow is sullied 

and the arid acres lose soil to the whipping winds 

I long for spring sun and the syncopated cycles of the seasons once again

 

04/05/2011

I am tired of smatterings

A smattering of snow when the earth cracks dry

A smattering of crocuses who can’t tell time

A smattering of left-over autumn leaves unwilling to fall

A smattering of chocolate chips not enough for cookies

 

And I am tired of only a modicum of hope

 

But I remember Newton:

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction

 

The opposite of these smatterings?

Not exactly but Perhaps 

A blizzard encasing fields of un-pruned cone flowers 

As new buds on the old lilac bushes hold their own

Obvious dust on the book shelves

A myriad of photo albums to update

(And what could be better than

A new bag of chocolate chips for the making)

 

But still 

I am tired of only a modicum of hope

 

02-01-2021

Dogs? Who wants dogs?

 

Hound at Home

 

George lies catching a sunbeam

You’d think he was a cat

His long floppy hound ears compete with his sagging jowls for turf

Indulgently he sprawls without a care

No howl or bay at me to get my attention.

We should all have such contentment now and then.

A chilly night did not keep her in.

Wrapped in her favorite tattered red jacket

Her blanket adorned with screened images of the National Parks

And her bit too large knitted hat,

She took her place at the far end of the porch.

Without the day’s wind she was quite comfortable.

She was out to watch

An expanse of the winter sky.

The new moon was not ready to show its face.

Orion’s majesty offered drama as usual

With his sword so carefully positioned.

She hummed the ballad about the Drinking Gourd

As she found the Big Dipper caught in the leafless branches

Of the massive maple tree.

Who else was around?

She could find Leo.

After all it was the meteor showers bearing his name

That brought her out in the first place.

Streaks of light didn’t disturb the myriad of stars

But they took center stage in this evening’s sky

As she watched as undisturbed as the stars.

11/17/2020

Collecting Autumn Leaves

 

He’s four

(If a day as my grandmother used to say)

And he’s prepared for a wonderful adventure

 

Maple leaves

Now autumn-tinged 

Rest on the grass waiting 

For these four-year-old fingers

To appraise their worthiness

 

He surveys all the treasures at his feet

Picks up one leaf

Judges it a fine specimen-

No cracks, no missing edges

Beautifully dressed in several shades of maroon-

He rests that choice on a carefully selected clearing.

 

He searches for another and another

Rejecting many 

Acquiring several more leaves with that majestic maroon finery 

Masterfully adding to his growing selection

 

He turns around

Deliberately

Pensively 

On a quest to find just one more.

 

10/21/2020

What makes a weed a weed?

It creeps, crawls, anchors itself near the perfect rose

with a root system adventuring deep

If ignored, it rises tall, reaching out under the low-hanging lilac boughs.

 

It doesn’t have the majesty of the aged blue spruce

Nor the fragrance of the honeysuckle looped over the fence

Nor the fragility of the oversized hibiscus.

Can it bear beauty at all?

 

If so

What makes a weed a weed?

 

There is no botanical definition.

Is it just unwanted, misallocated?

Defined by the landscape artist

Or one who only wants pedigree

A plant in the wrong place at the wrong time.

 

When grownups say a child is growing like a weed

What does that mean?

It usually means fast, almost unexpectedly fast.

Soon to rival the adult?

Gangly, spindly, out of proportion?

Like a weed reaching out adventuring deep?

 Will it bear beauty?

 

If so

What makes a weed a weed?

 

 

09/08/2020

A waning crescent moon

One bright Mars

Nothing else visible from the natural grassland field

With a northeast preferred view

 

A thin mist of clouds envelops

Most of the way-before-dawn sky

Some meager breaks hint hopeful of dissipation

 

But not on this meteor watch

 

Primed tonight again I am

For the elusive Perseids

 

8/12/2020

Stillness and solitude surround Spring at River Bend

​

The trout pond hosts a gathering of troutlets at the nearly submerged branches

while the waters lick and lap the edges.

​

It is not a beach with crystalline sands or a lakefront inviting boats to moor

Just a shore where the water stops and the rugged path begins

Where roots are exposed and the earth makes ledges over the licks and laps

​

Downy feathers, discarded by fledglings, rest in emerging grasses

Blackbirds have returned from wherever they winter if they winter at all

Their calls echo along the walkway across the inlets the ponds created long ago

Sparrows compete in chattering when they are not darting across the clouds and through the tree spaces.

​

A new song emerges but its vocalist is not to be found even though Spring foliage is meager.

​

Nestled near the water in a marsh among cattails

A heron strikes a statuette pose waiting for a trout trophy

Now momentarily displayed as caught then swallowed

unshared

​

6/10/2016

A day of remembrance, of thankfulness, of reflection.

We will not let our fear consume us,

but I worry about the anger that takes our energies day by day

Fear might freeze us,

but anger often makes us unable to focus,

unable to direct that anger to creative, positive, intense actions.

I am grateful I have the presence of mind

to reflect on these things,

to remember those unheralded friends and companions

who have shared their energies and have worked tirelessly

to focus on righteousness, justice, compassion and love.

​

And to refocus my energies in these often very dark times

​

​

4/4/2018

These few days of warmth tempt the best and strongest

In the garden.

 

Aspen, their buds bursting large, ready themselves for spring.

while the maples’ nearing leaves know not to be lured by the waning snow moon

 

Spring is knocking but roses still abide winter’s direction 

for no new growth yet.

Barely buds on the lilac branches are not quite ready to be jostled totally awake.

They are still swathed in their slumber casing, 

more than drowsy but not quite dormant

The lilacs know better than to think it is time to emerge.

 

Predicted snows ought put a damper on spring’s suggested finery

As it should.

A few weeks of tantalizing anticipation is well worth the wait.

 

 

03-11-2021

Instructions

 

The sign dictates:  Watch Out for Mountain Lions

 

I study the twisted cracked cottonwoods

The morass of dry underbrush

The decaying limbs long ago fallen 

 

The pond I pass reflects the calm of the day

With an occasional trout disturbing the placid water

Nearby the river smooth-talks the stones along its way

Without much effort as it travels on.

 

However, the sign dictates: Watch out for Mountain Lions

 

I have sighted an eagle eyeing a mouse

Not protected by the morass of dry underbrush

The raptor’s definitive landing

In the twisted cracked cottonwoods

Readies that mouse lunch.

 

I watch my step as a slithering grass snake still safe

In the decaying limbs long ago fallen

Strikes out at an unsuspecting toad.

 

But I am  sure to Watch Out for Mountain Lions

 

01/11/2021

I know very little about You, Hunter

But every winter

Over my house

You stand guard, a silent presence

Protecting young and guiding adventurers

 

I am honored to be among your charges

 

01.21.02

​

I thought about you last night

How we took the blankets from the guest room

Laid on the dry grass in the open field across the road

The promise of meteor showers kept us there for hours

We counted the shooting stars

(I know they are not stars)

One, seven, sixteen and on

I’d see one that you didn’t and the same for you

When we tired of the sky’s steaks

We looked for Orion and Leo, Mars and Saturn

I don’t remember which we found, but look we did

We arose, shook the dry grass off the blankets, and

Catching a glimpse of a few more showers, we wandered home

 

 

For Becky

11/17/2020

During these newly minted autumn mornings, 

Impatient maple leaves hurry to sail in the slight morning breeze.

Little do they know if they wait until midday

They could swirl on their way to the cushioning grass below 

With the afternoon wind tides.

 

A neighborhood girl dressed in a muted yellow shirt and pale red tights 

Dances by with a skip in her step.

Taken with the breeze she creates 

She mimics the aspen leaves fluttering.

After a respectful bow, she pauses, 

Gently lifts one of the maple leaves dressed in her colors.

 

Spinning the leaf by its stem, 

She dances again.

No need to wait for the afternoon wind.

A very hungry caterpillar is patrolling outside my window

Accordion-like she moves, stalks

Scrumptious leaves nearby

 

How is it she is moving more rapidly than I thought she could?

A moment of coffee distraction makes me lose focus. 

​

Where did she go so soon?

She must be off to more hospitable grounds

 

I am left pondering her next moves.

We are not actually looking

for the Milky Way.

​

We know where it is.

​

Right there, in the south eastern sky.

A band of stars knows where it is--

they gather as an arc to give it framing.

A few shooting stars point in the right direction

offering us clues we really don’t need.

 

Opening the truck door

that has sheltered us from the frigid mountain wind

we step out, stare at the darkened sky.

No hint of the galaxy before us,

only an obfuscating cloud.

 

Galileo saw it and the Greeks knew it was there.

​

On a majestic night like this,

maybe we are looking too hard for the Milky Way.

 

06/21/2020

The pieces of creamy clouds kept cradling that moon.

 

You know the one. 

Not the silken yellow with mediocre orange streaks one

Not the one with the look of broken eggshells hiding in the redwood canopy

Nor the one of latte with those leaves drawn in the foam—

Not that moon.

 

But what about today’s cradled moon?

You know the one.

It’s the bowl of egg drop soup

A bit cloudy, eggs stirred until only shreds float lacily on the surface

 

That’s the one

That’s the moon

 

4/2020