Bio Note: I've been splitting time this summer between our home near Boston watching our garden grow, and doing a whole lot of weeding, and the Berkshires, tramping around in the great green world of woods and meadows. The flower garden, and the garden of memories, grow this month's poems. For pics and short lyrics see my blog, prosegarden.blogspot.com.
Et in Arcadia Ego
The characteristics of rustic charm: Will an Adirondack chair do? Temperature: near eighty Companions: Summer Snowflake Viburnum, hands to the side, fingers stretched, a don't-touch-me from the nervous bride. Flag iris, white also, and a couple blue, as if bidding for a role in the wedding. Sadly missing: the show-off yellow, kidnapped, perhaps, by the steadily advancing shadow of Grandfather Oak. Spreading Korean lilac, showing the Japanese maple and the two-toned fashion-plate Wiegelia who's boss in this corner of things. Music? Piano melt. Good government? Hmmm, I've heard the phrase Sports? No. The multi-millionaires are squabbling. You can't have everything. Enjoy the silence while it lasts.
America's Home Town
A house on a hill in eighty-four We moved to town to live some more. The English lady across the street, as fine and quiet a soul as one could meet. The nosey-helpful neighbor in the rental next door, who gave you things (you didn't need). The flower border, the schoolyard swings. Walking distance to the shore, harbor beauty, all the history you needed and much more. The clichéd icons in Pilgrim hats, street games, youth sports and baseball bats A bakery, a library down the street, the hardware store whose ancient lore faded soon into retreat. The kids grew up on Watson's Hill Memory sees the sunken side yard still. A parable of neighbors, artists, babies, kids, small-town egos, occasional heavies with unchecked ids. The day the grands brought to our daughter's school hundreds of slides from a China tour, epic cool, ending — world-watching! — with student protests in the Square. We thought we saw the 'New Age' starting there. But age gives on to still more ages The old town renews, and newly stages its story of a place to be. We shared its love, it set us free. 06.05.20
All You Did Was Waste My Time
I give my time to the universe, from whom of course it came and who, chief among all providers, consistently has time for me I give my time to the breeze that blows yellow green through the ease of the leaves like a child's candy color I give time to the quiver in the trees, to the wave and the flutter, to father sky, and his son, the river. I give time to the great voices, who murmur companionably to the last lights of day. To the tints that lie upon the waters, disporting freely in the bay. I give time to the pictures, all those memory-prints. They give it back to me.
©2020 Robert Knox
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