before the harvest


yes, yes, we all know
you did the disappearing act
took your unique little laugh
and your nearly silent sighs
and the tangibles that made
an unpredictable life
infinitely bearable
 
but then so much of you stayed
i find your fingerprints
highlighted against the blush
of tomatoes ripe and gathering dust
waiting for your hand to coax them
into waiting baskets
 
twin hollows greet me by the squash
where you knelt patiently
weeding and watching for the signal
only you could see, a quiet invitation
to an intimate soup or soufflé
 
purposed footprints, abandoned trowel
carefully positioned hose, wanting only
the turn of the faucet to flow again
everything in this garden a witness
to your deep reluctance to leave
before the final harvest





Your Praises Go Too Far


Can praise ever go too far?
Will the day come when, in a moment of need,
Any of us reaches into our cardboard box of
“I was splendid, once”
And finds it empty?
May it not be so for me,
Not so for you with the perfect words.
 
With the perfect words that reached like cupped hands,
Like a down-lined nest still warm from bird’s fragile breast
And cradled my wonder at being known so intimately,
Without being known at all.
 
If praise can only go so far, then tell me,
Who sets the limit? Who posts the signs
That warn “Road Closed Ahead” when
Neither you nor I abide restrictions?
 
Restrictions are for the fearful, the nervous.
For those unwilling, unable to risk all,
Put on the transparent cloth of poetry
That covers completely, and yet leaves us
Naked before strangers who will have their way
With us, completely, regardless.
 
Praise cannot go too far, must not fail
To clothe our empty future with the cloth
Of remembering that magic day
When someone read our words,
And we were splendid. Once.





in praise of autumn


in winter's cold i was conceived
announced in spring and nourished
through the fiery days of summer
until with blood red leaves
autumn and i dropped
ripe-fruited into this world
 
tradition would have me rejoice
with greening new growth
emergence from nights of snow
resurgence from sleep-
type and shadow of the rise
from a freezing tomb
i do not sing that hymn
 
like a ruby leaf from the tree of life
i have grown from bud to full glory
waiting to descend and rest
patiently on gentle grass
below the sacred symbol
 
when God, the great gardener
comes collecting his harvest
i will jump, exuberant
at the touch of his rake and broom
exactly as the autumn leaves
fly before my shepherding strokes
not celebrating death
but singing an autumn anthem
of life well-lived
and safe collection home