OPTIONAL POETRY

Everything is motion
in the early-morning heat

an ant drags a gravelly husk
across the retaining wall

I’ve fled outside to drink
coffee in peace, requiring

a slower start these days,
a softer entrance into

the world of the living.
the bud on the yellow

starthistle is revealed
to be a bee, technically

a noxious weed but
I only see the one.

How to explain
this need for quiet,

what dreams did
come were not

particularly pleasant,
but as always

there’s an element
of truth in them

One must be wise
in interpretation

what textures
appear across acres

of scrub brush,
and what thread

to follow–
the neighbors’ voices

drift over across the
culvert, he’s not

happy with his grapes.
I wish I had more

literal beliefs, had
many gods, didn’t

hold uncertainty
as the one true thing;

then this slick barn
swallow would be

a message from
Aphrodite, a sign

of returning love
It’s true I throw salt,

knock on wood,
somehow more apt

to believe prophecies
of impending disaster,

in vengeful tradition
than optimistic signs

finding peace only
in the early morning

quiet, watching the
hillside to reveal

its secret paths
and hidden lives.

I’ve never seen a swallow
fly so high, batted about
like a shred of plastic

the finches have
the loveliest songs,
probably in admiration
of their own jewel
-throated elegance

the quails are more
reticent and speak
mostly in numbers,
so prone to alarm

and what am I,
well into a bottle
of white, settled
on the deck

where just below
my feet I think
some bird has
made its nest

under the corner
planks, more
drab and sparrow
-like, but still

it owns a song,
while I struggle
to peck out
words of my
own, but

maybe we are
more alike
than not,
fond of flight

and sincerely
astonished
when things
start to
hatch.

Them birds again
and their themes 

of peace and 
reconciliation 

I was feeling
hopeful last 

night but
realized it 

was far too 
comfortable;

hope, if anything,
a nerve exposed.

No, it was something
else I felt, a trick

of the mind designed
to protect, ancient 

as our diving reflex,
as fight or flight,

something animal,
a kindness

to cushion
the blow 

Another dream. You’re never
dreaming, only seeing lakes
and trees, and if the breeze
stirs some childhood
reminiscence it passes
imperceptibly, a ship
in the night.  Can I settle
for a just a look and just
a voice? For yours,
I might, and I’m not
sure why.  Is it a gift
to see my grandfather
in a leaf, to feel the chill
of water even from this
height? I’m not sure,
either, ready to sell
my soul for any sort
of signal, a break in
this silence, which
really is a sign in
its own right.

When the morning comes,
it comes,

scraping along
like chalk or dread

and with it dust
and with it doubt

that settles down on
the most obvious

of things.  Of course
there was nothing

else to say.
It looks like rain

but it won’t rain,
some bird repeats

the same short call
oblivious of the

state of things,
that this morning

of all mornings
has come so early

and I can hardly
breathe for it,

let alone sing
the jaunty songs

the day requires,
or lend color

to the trees.
It isn’t envy

as Keats said
but more the desire

to fade away.
I will leave in days

for a starker place
where the sun starts

fires and it floods
from all the rain.

There was nothing
else I could have said.

Pythia, a word–

In the garden today
and just now above the lake

I saw cages of gnats,
each individual insect

both attractant and repellant,
and this is how I frame my question:

What will become of us?

Or me.

I’ve realized now
that most things

are mostly empty space,
starting within our cells

and reaching
into our speech.

I told her to try saltwater,
it heals everything

I’m about to soak my hand
myself, having jammed

it full of splinters
while transplanting,

never realizing it
at the time

I was so caught up
in nasturtiums

that volunteered
themselves

the pain only
announced itself

today, rubor, calor,
dolor, tumor,

always too much,
always too little,

always too early,
and always too late.

You stepped into a dream;
at least in sleep I can reach you.

I got a splinter in my foot
while gardening today

but am now used to
someone being under

my skin.  Heard a clap
of thunder but the storm

never rolled in. I’m unsure
as to whether it will build up

or move on, but tied the vines
to their stakes, just in case.

(Might you read between
those lines of twine? Yes.
You may.)

I cannot deny the very
sound of a slowing jet
engine or the futuristic
tone of the light rail train
elicits some sort of
dopamine response,
just the thought of not
being in one place
provides a subconscious
lift, even while waiting
in an airport cell phone lot
for a late arrival, I know that
sooner than not I will leave
again, still unsure if I am
chased myself or giving chase,
but that the sense of departure
is the closest thing to a state
of grace