Hyacinth
It’s all about my mother, really
And the way she moved about the house the
Saturday before, deliberate and pensive
Setting the house ready,
She whisked away winter‘s grime and
Wiped the windows of our souls clean; then
Tossed the used up water on the roots of a
Backyard forsythia
Lenten offerings made in silence
I recall the bulb, its fragrance like a prayer
Leaves firm, pointed toward heaven
A scent not unlike her own
All my springs ever since
Otter at the Creek
On the edge of winter I waited
Standing by the water
I heard last year’s leaves
And thought it must be the robin
Rooting for her nest
But a sideways glance told me otherwise
As he, only a few feet away
Groomed himself …
Lithe and leather brown
He was not afraid
And we stayed that moment together
Then the old couple came by, and
I whispered, “Shhhh,
As he slid back into the river
Voice of the Falls
I swing a clogged foot from a wooden bridge
And want to fling it off into the rushing below
But what would I do with only one shoe?
So I rethink my desire
Raising up towards the blue glimpse
The evergreens whisper, “Come closer.”
That message, pure, clear and deep
Resonates my necessary sorrow
Which pulls the weight of an entire universe
