Author's Note: ​About the poems: Too many about flowers. Too few about concrete. Here, an attempt at balance.

​
There is Magic in Concrete


Embrace shovels and sweat.
Measure. Dig. Measure.
Build forms with low-grade wood.
Measure. Check for level. 
At some point it’s inevitable: 
you are on your knees in mud, 
your eyes to the earth, 
your butt to the air.

Chop rebar 
in a shower of sparks.
Learn the names: doughboy, 
waler, pier cage, stirrup.
Weave, tie wire. Twist pliers. 
You need a body of thunder and mist,
strong muscle, light touch.

Pour. No second chances now.
Wade in boots.
Shake the rocky depths, 
vibrate. Voids not welcome.

Work the surface flat, in circles,
with the tool called a ‘float’
(because that’s what it does)
buoyant 
on a gray puddle. 
Hold the leading edge at a slight upward angle,
avoid plowing. Your fingertips 
sense the mojo
of a sleeping wet bear
solid in mass yet grudgingly liquid
sort of bouncy 
as you stroke.
Pebbles disappear, embedded. 
Brush it for texture, or swipe it smooth,
a pretty coat
over guts of gravel and sand.

Now hose the mixer, shovels, tools, 
hose your hands and boots.
As the water disappears, so shall you.

Honor the skilled arms, 
the corded legs and vertebral backs,
honor the labor that shaped
this odd stone
sculpted, engineered,
implanted with bolts,
ignored, forgotten,
half-buried in dirt
bearing our lives.




Here’s to the Fragrance of Concrete 


Here’s to the fragrance of concrete 
as it cures

Yes, I said a fragrance
damp
yet oddly dusty
the scent of first raindrops

As you can smell an oncoming storm
here is the aroma
of pending permanence
the breath of a body exhaling its last, 
its peaceful last

When the formative stage ends
another slow lifespan begins
anonymous, unloved

Inhale, savor the dignity of concrete,
the humility, the power,
the gray bouquet