Scattered memories
of waders and birds of prey
with different views
of above and below.

I forget about seasons
as I am surrounded
by decaying books
and cups of tea

but they say the sweetness
of newly cut grass
is actually the scent of death
-and none of us are far behind.

I don’t know
what kind of tree I’d be
shedding needles or leaves,
but I know I’d rustle.

I am outside myself
which hasn’t happened since I was
in my 20s. There’s no brave new world,
just a weary one that feels like
wet newspaper. I coud use a cup of tea.

A tornado touched down nearby
but I still watched a favorite movie.
I forget the last time I watched a sunset
as I’ve been watching my own feet too long.

The landscape is lush but brushed
by grief. But it’s ok.
Nobody owes me anything.
I don’t have regrets.
The sun can dance. The moon can rest.

She sat on the porch steps
watching people pass by, chewing her lip,
wishing for a smoke.
I used to wonder what she’d look like smiling
and when I finally saw it, it was terrifying.
A manic ode to silent films, all in her eyes.
She was usually alone
but I suspect
she kept ashes of her dearest enemies
she’d cursed and swept up in her vacuum.
It was always a full canister.
“I have unsuccessfully tried
to mother a cactus,” she once told me,
with a knowing look.
There were clumsy attempts at hugs
but they were always met with mockery,
making me feel a clumsy giant
in her Lilliputian view. I can almost laugh now
but my heart still catches in my throat
when I see a cactus in bloom.

Post-news game show battles
in the living room
with the fan pushing summer air
around the clues.

It’s a leisurely break
from the fatigue
of a quiet madness
of middle age.

My daughter is galavanting
in the county with her girls
as my son weighs retirement
options for his first real job.

Time is slipping away
but it’s right there
on a moth’s wing
at my window screen.

Cardigan brigade
of secretaries in summer,
restocking the candy jars
like ammunition
before a hungry calendar

Little-known yearnings
of quiet time-keepers
become shaped like
mythical fruits that fly
just above the clouds

Love stories living inside
someone old enough
to understand and disregard
irony would be funny
if not for the heartbreak