Not wanted – weed.
Bush, tree, leafed, blooming,
thistle, burr, petals falling,
pollen, samara, catkin dangling,
spider webs, and punky wooded
long fallen trees, shredded, picked over.
Woodpecker at my side, coreopsis at my feet,
and still the fallen may well weep,
but tulips, daffodils, forget-me-nots
have not yet been forgotten
nor have the grasses stopped.
Varied green and last night’s mist,
I have been there, too,
before the dully darkened grey sky and amber walk-throughs,
have been where there were no messages,
no after dinner discussions
disparaging lonelinesses of lost afternoons,
and the inconsequential,
the innocent rainfall,
the brooding ever watchful crows.
Connections I have mulled over,
the labyrinths I have constructed,
lavender, green and yesterday’s mist
subjugated by an anger
that no mandate contains.
An early morning legacy of confusion
enumerates the hours, tallying up conclusions,
stories that do not jibe,
and after finale, abrasions, soliloquys,
a catkin’s hurried passage,
a maladapted worrisome tirade.
And it isn’t only
that I am old and, as before but more imminently, dying,
nor do stardust or angels console.
Some trees, few bushes
and all that is behind the subterfuge of weeds,
and then there is the fog that’s always changing.
More so than with my own reply,
I’m never more at ease
than with the guttural sound of bullfrogs
from a cattail hidden shore
throbbing suspended over watery surfaces,
over quotidian disconnected wayward spaces.