June bugs crash into screens
mosquitoes whine
to get in by any means
dogs howl, frogs croak
like the bass fiddle
in Lightning Hopkins’ blues.
Sticky moisture from the bayou
envelopes, and soaks through,
permeates still night air
like the sad strains of Claude’s La Mer.

Growing up in southern climes
slowed days, stretched years
put me on the edge of tears
yearning for escape from there
from dominion of church
and Mama’s monarch perch.

Hints of her softness
were so rare and spare
that when she let us smooth her hair
we forgot how parched were we
for a trace of this tender intimacy
on summer nights’ scorch
spent on our homestead porch.

Listening to some lovely piano music
I am transported into another realm
my eyes misty with gratitude and appreciation.
What is it about good art
that punctures my heart
and pours into it wonder and light?
When I encounter it I know
I am but a dot,
insignificant in a beautiful universe,
yet I know I belong.

Her mind seemed red as an apple
she looked at me squint-eyed
as if I were a dark ugly shade of blue
when I spoke ideas
on the other side of her veil.
I could tell the veil had divided us,
me now a continent away.
Later a sadness washed over me
thinking of her departure.

Then I thought of her kind heart.

Both of our hearts pump life
into the most distant cells,
to our ***** toes and grimy fingers
fingers we must poke into stink and rot
poked with love
beyond our comforts.

So next time we meet
I will remember her heart.

Sometimes it seems my little world,
all its attractions, issues, and challenges
conspire to keep me from you.
But in the morning,
before I fall into the coarse canvas of my day
I encounter the pure linen
and texture of your love for me,
the thin red yarn
of my love for you.

Watered in the heat and fervor of summer
the sage explodes its magenta glory
bees buzz and feast on its nectar.

It captures the sun
smiles and giggles its delight.
It is a joy to see life burst
and stir a flurry
as the zeal and vigor of its limbs
cannot be contained.

I too need watering
in this infernal season
of clashes and wrangling
seemingly determined
to turn my verdant soul
into a desert.

My tears drip down my cheek
each one a piece of me
atoms of my love
for you.

In the first light of this day
with too little sleep
I am feeling tired and vulnerable
but I have entered the dreams, fears, and pains
of other poets from far and wide
and it seems
we are all growing and dying together
maybe just a little at a time
line by line
these spirits enter me
and assure me I am not alone
in this drift.