To Allie, on Learning to Walk

She’s mobile now, her two tiny feet propelling her
onward into a world previously out of reach
of her diminutive hands that desire touch,
desire grasping and turning color and shape
into form, into substance held, clutched, possessed,
these shapes and colors turned sensate into texture;

and balanced, bipedal now, this new view, much higher
than a crawl, offers her life a new perspective,
down, behind her, now further away and up so much closer,
her hands reaching out to connect, to explore,
to touch and discover the unseen, the vaguely seen,
the now seen, touched and solid, grasping reality;

and with one foot, tentative, moving onward, balancing
and balanced, one foot teetering closer to the unattainable,
the unreachable, closing the distance, so close,
a shorter, closer, reachable distance into the world.

The Flutter of Shuffled Cards

I miss the flutter of shuffled cards

falling from my thumbs’ release, alternating,

the flap and slap of cards laid out,

pulled slick from a well-worn deck,

years of gin rummy, hearts, and spades,

winning and losing, my losses tallied and totaled

amid the shouts of victory and laughter

in this game of chance, luck of the draw,

luck drawn out in random dealings

now replicated with a rapid arrangement

of graphics digitized on a computer’s screen,

programmed play’s amusement separating us

in the silent solitude of life; not the same,

the click of a mouse lacking the luster

and the flutter of shuffled cards falling,

the laughter of good times shared, win or lose.

Rose Garden

I went to the nursery to buy some roses,

checking the varieties and colors,

even asking for help, for I don’t really know roses,

not like my father did, roses planted for my mother.

You asked if they were for you, the red ones

I picked out, two bushes wrapped in burlap,

bound with twine, shiny leaves and pointed thorns

poking through, a couple of buds visible in their fullness;

so I lied, told you, yes, they were for you,

for the garden, that little patch of

earth behind the house, a patch we set off

with scalloped bricks, a weed infested patch

I cleared just for these roses, digging up the ground,

churning it, turning it, mixing it

with peat, a must for healthy plants, I was told,

and spray with pesticides, to keep the bugs away, aphids, too,

watering periodically, lovingly, but not too much,

advise I expect I needed, heeded as best I could,

though, perhaps not as well nor with as much care,

leaving them instead to bloom on their own.

And they grew, in time, soft petals pushing the buds open,

spreading and bursting outward, their red stark against

the dark green leaves and thorns and the brick of our house,

those roses a gift of love I bought

for myself, for my garden needing love,

that patch of weeds untended behind the house, a patch

set off with scalloped bricks, churned and turned,

the one spot of beauty otherwise missing

in that tangle we called a home,

the place where we lived, you and I,

but by summer’s end they were dead, flowers

and leaves fallen from black and brittle stems,

the thorns bared, barbs to catch the wind and windblown,

all that remained, their beauty long since faded,

long since gone, in the waning days of summer;

and there they stand still, a constant reminder,

lifeless stalks in a patch set off by scalloped bricks,

reminding me what I’d always known,

I really don’t know roses.

Harbingers

Of the two harbingers of spring,

I much prefer the robin;

for what does a groundhog know of seasons,

having lain asleep and dormant

these winter months under frozen ground,

growing lean and lightheaded,

sleep still on his mind even as he

pokes his nose out, cautiously,

and, fearing his own shadow,

runs for cover, afraid,

returning below once more to pluck up

the courage to try again in six weeks – perhaps;

must I, who would crawl below my own covers,

afraid, trust my awakening to him?

No, I much prefer the robin,

chip-chirping on my garden fence,

his brown back and rust-red breast

blending into the weathered boards,

like me, grown old and warped by winter's snow,

awakened now by springtime’s jubilant call;

he knows the seasons, fat now on southern worms,

busy these long cold months preparing to return,

unafraid of shadows and the late winter storm

that coats him, preened and puffed and huddled for warmth;

he knows the seasons, this robin,

the lengthening of days and the work ahead,

the urgency of living, awake and unafraid.