songbird’s song through the window

asking for nothing

but a listen

the afternoon

stretches like a birch

when the storm begs us to stay

I’ve not aged well since the last time.

I’ve gone grey.

Maybe it’s the way the air has become

thicker like syrup,

birds are behaving chaotically,

and I haven’t touched a fern in months.

I think my feet have become swallowed up

inside another set of feet

and my eyes have begun to recoil

from the harsh light of a new decade.

I’m a little tired.

There are moments when I remember

‘delight’… a bite, a laugh, something soft.

But the scenes fade in and out

and I’m not sure what’s real.

I hope you don’t mind the grey.

This is no costume, no guise.

I am that hideous creature in the woods,

that dumb cow in the meadow

far away from reason,

lacking ambition or understanding.

The world exists in the grass at my feet

and in a cloud overhead

that baptizes poor wretches

whether they realize it or not

I awoke singing “amen”

under my breath, as if commending

my body to the day ahead-

whatever may come.

When bones are coded for aches

and nerves programmed for struggle,

the gift of hope is time speeding by

with the sun overhead, pointing to glory.

It’s a dark place tapping its coordinates

upon skin and psyche

that won’t allow for missteps

or amusements. Rise above. Amen.

I’m not Irish but I can identify at least

seven shades of green

from my perch on the porch

(even the air is green, which makes 8).

Church bells clang a little off-key

some forgotten hymn for the town

as dogs breathe 57 scents a second

through car windows as they loll on by.

A few gently rolling hills just beyond

homes and highways encircle my view

so it feels like I’m in a spoon about to be

dipped in a bowl of grass and trees.