Global warming
The earthworms casting
their benediction, have come
at last to this bed amended
for so many seasons
sand, mulch, compost, and waiting,
wanting flowers this year.
The squirrels, have aerated
everything again, turning earth
and flowers under- destructive
buck toothed trowels breaking
up the plantings, burying
hope for next year.
I dig without the gloves I
left in the rain; there are
slimy things, fruiting bodies
a melting pantry, where some
things sprout, some things rot
some things soften, some things, not.
There are stones,
my nails are short,
I bury my fingers in the dirt,
raise palms.
bagatelle
unfinished moment
screeching brakes without the sound
of bumpers banging.
uncreated
energy leaves the scene
of unaccident.
a bad poet
the tiny stream
says little well
caged crickets chirp
winter fiddles at windows
heart fires contained.
boring sermon
dutiful box elders
think outside.
herons roost
laundry flaps cleanly
on the line