six and a half months ahead of schedule
the sky above me is turning black

nobody seems to notice it yet
the weatherman would have said

i leave on all of the televisions
and the radios in every room

i stay inside all day listening
trying to keep ahead of the plan

trying not to be taken by surprise
i wonder why nobody has noticed it yet

(if only i could see their eyes)
it seems to be happening every night

the Diabelli Variations play on the stereo
     you in your world me in my own
with off-beat accents and a grand and solemn glow
     no one has come to see us, alone,
the theme in time begins a timeless, elegant echo
     although we might not know
maybe a little pompous as the mock-heroics grow
    our reflections come and gone
five, six, seven play in their various allegro
     we may never need be shown
matching our own Tempo di Menuetto moderato
     what has come to us unknown

lost

on shifting sands
            as the sun sets and cool damp
         rises

   no moon yet a pulsing, rolling wave
               echoes and is lost

awash in sound
                 and salt

the lake is almost thawed, already
the grey ice turns to slush in the sunlight

water pools along the surface lying
in low spots and along the shore

there should be snow and storms and
days on end of slate skies, and waiting

standing at the picture window in the
living room, to look out on the garden

thinking about spring, about the chores
spring will bring, when the rains stop

and the spongy ground has thawed
and dried enough to share my weight

soon we shall return to the lake shore

the farmers, hard, winter toughened
Minnesota plains, quiet men
have been spreading manure

the wet fields sink the
green or yellow tractor
wheels into the muck

that the melted snow
has given to us once again,
stuck almost above the rims

(maybe that is why they paint
them such a bright yellow)
but these men press on

as though maybe denial, hard
work and quiet lives could let
them, too, walk on water

against this last assault
of winter, these men
work to renew the life
of the fields with compost

every spring, like tulips
pressing up through the
frozen slush, reaching for

the promise of warmer days,
too early, once more, asking,
has this gift been received

with thankfulness?

i.
you fought like a tiger -
to stop me from rubbing
sun screen on your delicate
skin, you hated the greasy
feel, and so ran into the ocean
then rolled in the sand and
kicked sand in my face,
               at four
Great Hollow Beach, Truro
     June, 1994

ii.
you never could resist -
if we turned our back
even for a minute you
were off to find the largest
boulder, you would climb to
the top and raise your arms
in victory, and always, always
land in the water, wet and cold,
              at eight
City Beach, South Lake Tahoe
     June, 1998

iii.
oh, how Mt. Baldy called to you -
the giant of a sand dune,
moving inland as a glacier,
a sweep of sand blowing
from the peak ridge, like
the banner of heaven, but
i carried you all the way
back to the house after
you cut your foot on a shard
of glass, carelessly abandoned,
              at eleven
Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore
     June, 2001

i know without turning
     to look
that the school bus waits
         on the corner
for the neighborhood children
        
i hear the chimes
announce the open
     door

loosing forth life
     back into the neighborhood