Seasons


The hawk is back,
perched atop the flat black
hood of the propane grill
above the long straight planks
I set in line and hammered tight
one summer beneath the feeder
where junco, titmice, sparrows
mixed their browns and grays
and laughed their high-pitched
chatter.  

And you persist,
your laughter perched atop
some fifteen winters,  
heavy seasons
each laid down, aligned, 
and hammered shut.  





August 2016

​
Mid month of the Emperor Augustus,
Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed 
Virgin just a day away.  I’ve seen his
golden face on an ancient coin,
seen hers in wood and glass and oil, 
clothed with light, tilted upward 
toward her risen Son.  

But I’m neither Catholic nor a Roman,
so I turn mine toward the sunflowers
we’ve planted among the tomatoes, 
cabbages, and squash, bright sentinels
that in the fullness of summer have raised
yearning faces toward the morning sun,
its flood of photons cascading down upon
green leaves and golden heads, 
drinking in that waterfall of energy,
drunk with light.

I would pray to these 
except for last night’s news, 
the face of a child, someone’s son, 
turned up from the rubble of Aleppo, 
Fallujah, Baghdad, Beirut, Sarajevo, 
Dresden, Nanking, Hiroshima,
where sunbursts burnt away the sun,
where smoke and ash turned day to night,
where from this dust a child’s blank face
tilts toward the flash of a camera,
searching for the missing face of God.