In Need of a Garden

The Earth spoke of a need,

a need matching my own, these summer days;

so we planted a garden, together

coaxing from the once fallow ground

nutrients, sustenance, churning up

its rocky soil and mixing in, adding to,

to lay down a bed for the plants

and bulbs I’d bought, carefully chosen,

nursing them at Earth’s breast

in rain and sunshine

to grow and bloom, blossoming

into a garden and meeting our need,

a need we shared, the Earth and I.

Hebron's Water

Hebron’s water was smooth that night, a moonless night, the lake like satin shimmering, turned red vermilion, pink and orange mixed and mingled with blue becoming black in time, reflecting a sky that pulls me into its darkness, a darkness descending from dusk and twilight into night, through time’s celestial passing, absorbing me into itself, closing in, surrounding me, my own form now but a shadow growing thinner, a shadow out of place here on the water’s edge, ankle deep in an amniotic warmth that holds me fast, transfixed and transformed by this expanse of sky and sea, dark and fluid, primordial, silent ‘cept for an echo’s eerie cry of a loon unseen, a specter’s warble calling out, trilling, unanswered, calling out, calling me.

In Nighttime's Darkness

In nighttime’s darkness,

     shadowless,

a loon proclaims himself

           here,

     calling out:

an echo back from across eternity,

mournful and alone.

Fathers and Sons

He’s everywhere I go, there

in the shadows or over my shoulder,

or in plain view, just sitting, rocking

on the porch, quiet and watchful,

his hands, creased and cracked, still on his lap,

or supporting his head, nodding off.

I try to avoid him, wherever he is,

in his sitting, watching, or ambling about,

slow, his head down, looking, stopping

to pick up a small stone or a lost screw,

tossing it aside at last to take up

this young child’s hand into his own broad palm,

his hands used to hard work, honest labor,

silently leading him; and now, years since his passing,

I see him at a table, seated, his Bible spread

out and open, marked and smudged,

his eyes following a passage of King James’ language

to its end, and, his fingers entwined,

he bows his head, a brief prayer before rising,

a prayer for me, perhaps, unable to rise

to his stature, even today, nor escape him

in the shadows over my shoulder,

quiet and watchful, patient.