In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Singing Bowl
Malleable heart, mouth open to the sky and rain,
my discipline is to learn your one singing note—
to fish it out of the depths of a fountain like a penny
someone tossed there long ago, or like the sun
in hiding. Not so easy to twirl the simple
wooden mallet, learn how the wrist must circle
lightly around the rim; or when it comes, how to loft
its brassy bangle, let it eddy across the grass.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
[temporarily removed by author]
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Risen
And after winter, the plants I thought
had surely perished in hardscrabble
soil, now signal their return: once dry,
the arms of the hydrangea now push
tight-woven clusters of veined green;
along the ground, runners roll aside
the stones and begin to edge the walk.
Everywhere, aspect of light that hid before
behind curtains of fog or sheets of snow
or blinding rain. Vivid gash of peonies,
new swelling throats— lilies speckling
with pollen dust: as though a season
wracked turns now from a long fast.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Refrain
I buy tomatoes, I buy onions, I buy tea.
The pantry is stocked with sweets but my tongue
needs savory. Here is my troublesome past
come back— it coasts across the interstate
without brakes, slaps down the bill, rearranges
all the furniture. Out there, a white haze smudges
the bank above the road. A brown thrasher in the yard
mouths everything twice: Consider, consider.
What I imagine he says is good advice.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
[poem temporarily hidden by author]
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Dear heart, I take up my tasks again:
rising in the morning to turn off the alarm
—from the old French A l’arme, meaning to
the arms, though I have hardly any weapons
but these limbs, once burnished and nearly
lovely in their prime; my wits (still for the most
part, gratefully, intact); and this all too common
yearning for ease and rest, pleasure and kind words…
Listen to the small feathered body singing in the dark,
its faltering lyric familiar as the prayer I’ll don
as armor for the day: oh faith, oh love, oh courage.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
[poem temporarily hidden by author]
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Risk
Nubbin of green, tremulous branch
of a tulip poplar— how fast the careen
from thought to dream.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
Vocalise
We found the feathered body
beneath the window, red claws
stiffened into lower case C’s.
*
Whose voice is that then,
launching its frisson of a rising trill
across the field?
*
So little time: I clasp
the little tremor in my throat,
your hand under the table.
*
We pass the cup’s
clear lake of green
tea between us.
*
The French lilac answers,
its bright shimmer
backlit by the sun.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.