for Heather
 
Three days into the new year, I
dismantle the pine tree fallen
by secret rot and glittering ice,
the axe singing cleanly. Sweating,
chilled, I pause to breath painful air.
                        *
Our daughter visits a friend
in Morocco,
celebrating her birthday away
from home for the first time.
She’s looking at pottery stalls
in Marrakech
or posing for a snapshot,
embarrassed, on a smelly camel.
Perhaps sunbathing on a beach
near Rabat;
the impending Mid-east war
closer to her mother and me.
                        *
In the circle of fallen needles,
round as a Christmas tree skirt,
a leafless box elder sapling
has suddenly appeared,
just waist high like a walking stick
waiting for a man in need.
                        

This year cicada Brood X rises
in astounding numbers
from their earthy paradise
to risk, as they feel they must,
their lives for successful sex.
And shrill they sing in a desperate hope.
 
After predators gorge, groan away,
survivors fly to find
their reward, their version of
ecstasy rising from a tentative maybe
to a certain yes. Beyond that, how can
a judge decide some false superlative?