Approaching customs, my father slowed the car.
"Time to eat! he said, and pulled us to the side.
He'd bought peaches from a fruit stand,
Forgotten they'd never cross the border.

Never one to waste, his plan unfolded.
We stood beside the car, peach juice
Trickling down our arms,
Falling at our elbows,
Gorging a delicacy turned to glut,
Making memories of forced generosity,
Gluttons of fruit, victims of parsimony.

My mother knew what was coming:
The cramps we kids would have
From smuggling peaches
In stretched bellies
Into Canada.

Whitman looked down at nature,
Saw the grains of sand, the single blade of grass,
Reflected on the journeywork of stars,
Taking it all in, he let it all out his barbaric yawp
Across the rooftops of the world.

You are not forgotten, Walt.

Dad gave us pliers and their holsters --
Said, "Wear them when you come outside."

At nine and ten, we carried them,
Entering the world of working men.

I wore out pliers and holsters,
Bought new ones and wore out them.

Now several sets reside in treasured spaces,
In boxes and vehicles and other places.

These days seldom used, my pliers remind me
Of my growing up, of everything behind me.

We pray to align our minds to the mind of God
We read the Word to renew our minds;
The Word changes us,
Never the reverse.

Change the Infinite?
We cannot.

Manipulate the Almighty?
Impossible.

Make the straight our crooked path?
Inconceivable.

Creation cannot become Creator;
Though it bear His Image,
It is merely mirror,
Never Light.

Servants are we,
Never Master.

This the Way.

Memories linger and arise…
Misty ghosts before our eyes.

Autumnal Wanderings

Summer's heat leaves us wilted,
Potted tomatoes drying on the deck.
Water helps, and evening's shade
Reminds us of the coming dread.

Ash trees drop late summer's shed;
Yellow leaves litter grass now lost;
Dog days oppress us as we yawn,
Ennui of heat turns our desire to frost.

We are not content at summers' turning fall;
We miss the verdant greens of spring;
We dread the snow, the wintry cold;
No longer young, we fight our growing old.

The semester has begun,
Textbooks, scuffless, new,
Slung lightly in my students' packs
As they begin their freshman track.

Thirty-seven new beginnings on,
I am an old horse about to plow,
Semester settling on my shoulders,
Horse collar creaking to the strain
As earth yields and rolls to the side.
Fall plowing the back 40 has begun.