Evening Drive

Although the scenery changes with age,
whether forests, prairies, or glowing cities,
the end is still the same:   You and I are no longer alone.

We are traveling together, moving across this wild stage
of God’s domain.  We have seen thunderclouds, lilies
and broken windows; this world has become our own.

White dashes slip beside us in silence, like pages
of a history book, recording time with ease –
more and more of our story known.

Evening ages and the sun displays its rage,
but we park, lower a window, and enjoy the breeze. 
Scenery fades into night.  We are taking the long way home. 

Looking Out

Hope is the opening of a window.
Though the view may change,
something out there is perfect.

Maybe it is a cardinal who ascends to a tree,
just as you part the drapes. Who, really,
could have planned that, you ask.
Or maybe it is a boy, in hat and mittens,
who sticks out his tongue for a snowflake.

Hope can even be that last leaf on a tree,
if you think about it - or the spring rain
that brings up flowers, well after the worms.
It can seem hidden at times.

So look. No matter the season.
Something is perfectly timed and perfectly placed --
like a tiny gift in a trembling lover's hand.

after reading classifieds

more lights than normal are turned off
in this subdivision, half-covered by clouds.
i walk my dog, the streets are silent.

in huge houses, men and women are eating
late dinners in deepening twilight. lights off,
tvs on. winter is coming quickly.

we have little energy to flip the switches.

some of my friends have stopped calling
the numbers printed in the papers, and some,
have put down their pens altogether.

skepticism grows, then rolls over and over,
wearing down the same weary sections
of our young, beating hearts.

Like the Plover: A Prayer

Blessed Creator, Sustainer of Earth,

make my wings more like the plover's,
as grey as the pebbles and filthy sand
that edge the shore, that blend to grainy
patterns beside the lulling surf…

and form my body just as the plover's,
shrinking my life into a shallow hollow
of four measly inches, my mark in the sand
as a tiny portion in the long, endless beach…

and direct my future more like the plover's,
speckling my eggs with brown and crème
and covering my nest with shells and debris,
as i wait through nights of coastal winds

for life to break from mud and sand,
your promise to crack despite the waves.

The Reverse of Fly

The yellow apples in a basket sigh
from a wavering branch they crave—
accepting the fall, the reverse of fly.

Their farmer worked like any guy
unwrapping his windy orchard maze
so yellow apples in a basket sighed.

In a crispy flannel, he never once shied
from the wobbly ladder, then turned grave,
accepting the fall, the reverse of fly.

Weakly, he awoke with a wealthy supply
of bleeding organs & a swelling nave,
while yellow apples in a basket sighed.
                                                               
He clenched a fist, but withheld a cry,
rehearsing the way that men behave,
accepting the fall, the reverse of fly.

Now he picks the branches on high,
up from the rungs that death supplies,
while yellow apples in a basket sigh,
accepting the fall, the reverse of fly.

Frequency

Driving to my own funeral, in another
city of course, I heard myself as fuzz,
a frantic release of electrons.  The stir
dazzled through my dashboard
like a stuttering thunderstorm—
first a few drops, then a sonic torrent,
as my hometown station flooded
with static.  Yet the loss became more
and more audible as I pressed
into the wheel and dropped the pedal,
hoping the voices would return
and offer a proper goodbye.  The black
rain continued, soaking the signal
with patter—over the voice of a child,
yelling in the deep end of a pool,
growing even louder than thunder
as he sunk.