In porch pots,
invested down the lawn,
ending it,
just now firing up,
splayed on the trellis,
open all the way,
the same and every day new.
Archive for June 18th, 2017
Lone ranger.
Jun 18
Might be a possum with superior climbing skills,
who’s wearing a mask.
More likely one of the racoons,
we’re up to four at least,
cleaning out the bird feeders
with impressive industry
and thoroughness,
sharing uninvited from our several dangling attractive nuisances.
When sufficiently frightened, no easy thing,
they dive under the house for safety,
looking resentfully back over their shoulders.
Chlorophyll abetting breath.
Jun 18
Not always green,
or not only green,
unfurling from the core,
despiralating,
as if their coils of DNA had been compressed, then let go.
A few of Earth’s three trillion trees, under white clouds,
mostly voting green
— more trees here than stars in the galaxy
as recently reckoned —
while the green then gray berries
fatten into blue
and we and a thousand wild birds wait together
poised to strike.
Full bloom along every wall.
Jun 18
A quick circuit of the house
all the ripeness newly sprung,
no special effort required,
lean in and click.
Some are done and disassembling,
theme and variations,
every foot,
all the way around
but wait,
each one perfection of its kind,
from bud to bloom
yet each lovelier than the last.
Soul washed, and eyes washed,
in the rising gyer of another circuit.