Tolerance

The tear in the shirt

            holds the character

                        of the man

            in its callused hand.

Frayed like an unraveling

            rope, the shirt

                        retains

            the losses and gains

of a life that's grappled

            with the hooks

                        of error

            that teeter on whether

or not. The grubbing of grain

            from resisting land,

                        subject to rain

            that plots its own plane.

            

Obsolescence

The rose reached for life

            through the shattered

                        back glass

            Its petals celebrating

                        sentience

                                    in the landfill of corrosion,

                        metal burning          

                        in lost vanity

Rose thorns delicate

            against shards

                        of glass,

                                    residue of middle-class

                        standards of safety

The rose

            its halting beauty

                        indomitable

            blood-red

                        accenting untended

                                    greys and greens

                                                of loss.

                                                

Punching Shadows

Refining shadows was his delight

in life. Marking their boundaries,

polishing their angles, he clarified

the fuzziness of their perception.

Living with shadows like he did,

the hard-core, face-on reality

lost power. He knew only slant

of experience, glancing light.

When his shadow became itself,

negative transforming its print,

the eye reversed, seeing only

the inner self, lost its dazzle.

Tending

As a rose keep, I was an utter failure.

The bleating lambs called to me,

but I denied their need for fertile soil.

Tomorrow seemed soon enough

to prune dead growth and search

for black leaf. Let them frolic

in their own freedom, I thought,

leggy stems reaching to the sky.

Their thorns like cracked hooves

were such a bother, a rancorous

manifestation I took personally.

My heart wasn't right for it,

this shepherding that involved

soaker hoses, mulching roots.

Let the wolves come. I napped

peacefully beneath the oak.

Rumors

Some prefer their rumors in pieces

         words to chew and consider

                  cows in a huddle beneath the oaks

                           cuds to digest

                  in the companionship of kind

Connection more important than truth

         words binding one to another

                  shreds of evidence

                           happenstance

                  enduring debris

Sorting out truth is a game

         like volleyball with its setup

                  and spike

                           the right team

                  sharing the win

Malevolent process that divides

         like cells in a cancerous growth

                  uncontrolled

                           insidious

                  sometimes fatal

Sleeping with Promises

The empty nightgown

            hanging on the door.

            its bodiless shape

                        the vacuity of hope

                                    that resurrection is more than myth.

            The sleeveless wonder

of remembered arms, fingers

                        frozen in a single

                                    caress.

Whole visions emerge

            from thinning fabric

                        cloth returning

                                    to threaded

                        memories

            patterns of provocation

                        casus belli.

Wisps of delight and destruction

                        hidden in shapeless folds

                                    soft, cool to the touch

                                                utterly empty...yet full.

After the Storm

Even the trees bend their knees

toward the dawn when the winds

come in the night.  They sense

the power in the zephyr grazing

their leaves, spiraling in patterns

with increased velocity, darkened

to the sinister forces they endure.

Their faith lies in the subtlety

of shared creation, their certainty

that life's cycle  renders completion.

Bending toward the dawn, they know

that the light of photosynthesis

will beam on leaves tossed askew

restoring the vitality the Son gives.

Hunch Weaving

The flicker house was mounted

on a backyard tree

with desire to conserve,

to ensure a presence.

But squirrels thought

the box to be theirs,

a homestead for generations

of  furry tails.

They remodeled the opening,

wove pine straw ticking

and birthed the first brood

of tiny sunflower seed thieves.

The yard wars were on

and raged for decades.

The day wind felled the box,

hunch drove me to look inside

and there perched

on a pillow of down

was a single speckled egg.

Word Habits

She wears her words like a wimple,

starched and confining,

they rarely engender dialog,

The black serge flowing

to the floor measures

each syllable

for its suitability

in the moment,

stewardship of expression.

Her underskirts cover

the slip of the tongue

the intimacy of feeling

the unguarded response

of a woman more nearly human.

But the pointed toes

of the serviceable shoes

punctuate the sense

of a mind trained

in precision not fluency.