Somewhere in the world
The sun shines warm.
Not so hot as to make one
Perspire within a second of leaving the
Air conditioned comfort dome

In soft afternoon light
The native birds glide and perch
And ramble on the ground and resume
Flight quickly once seeds are consumed
To avoid dangers unseen and unsensed

Not here.  Not in this cold part of the world.
Where snow blankets the dreary brown underbrush
Ice covers the limbs.  Chill - no bitten
Frost - infuses the thin bones, sinews
Yearning to be running brooks

Babbling with warm sap
Coddling blanket embrace
Hawks circling on updrafts
For chipmunks, unaware
Slow, down

Come, come you avian darlings
You hawks, gulls, wrens and turkey vulchers
Lo! I have a sacred place
Where mountains are made
From unburnt debris longing to be ashes

Come, come you airborne circlers
Wafting up on heat streams unseen
Your kin abide on Jealousy Lane
Thinking you are satisfied.   All your needs met
Without having to scour the ground

Those careless human benefactors, wry and grizzly
Poking fun at the sight
Of so many black shadows
Flies in swarms
Gnats attacking the pitcher’s mound in August in the swamp
Bees.  Caressing the Queen.  Delicate, Loving, Caring
How can we not anthropomorphize the cackle,

They arise out of curiosity
And stay out of satiation
When do the bats revivify the seeds of waste?
Why are there no jackals?
Who built the fence?

That glorious victory mound
Miccosukee burial ground
Green seeded with local grasses
Humbled with railroad trances
We, your dancing gymnopedies
Bow down.
Constant motion
In your service

Thank the wasteful trash purveyors,
May the dump rise high!

I won’t be accompanying
you to the airport

I cannot walk much
any longer

Security checkpoints inhibit us
passing through to the gates

Celestial travels ahead
terrestrially bound I turn

I don’t like goodbyes

Goodbye

Before my first day of school
I knew how to read and write

But mom thought it important
That I memorize
Our home phone number.

In retrospect
She worried that a stranger
Might sweep me up and secret me away.

How cute.
That one’s deepest fear
Would be kidnapping

And how sweet
That her dearest friend
The one she couldn’t bear to lose
Would be her five-year-old

Good times

I didn’t know it at the time
The bench seemed more a subject
A reminder to sit and look

Ease one’s load
Reflect upon the day
Reach for plumbs unexplored

Years later the memories were revived
The day we saw the bench

She and they
Strolled leisurely
Quaint small exhibits of musty furniture
The rickety interior of the old stone manor

Please, can you take our picture?
Here.  Use my phone.

We were on our way home
Through the garden path
Unflowered in the early winter’s dusk
Brisk but not too chilly.  The cold would come later.

Waiting, alone, I chanced a shot
The composition was
Just OK.  My fans said “good”.  I, “no not”.

I now recall the view
From behind the porch
Looking upward at the stained
Glass dormer
Halfway between the house and the bench

I remember that day
When I saw her.
When I was able to see her.

In Hospital

Sitting quietly beside the bed
Who knows when the next
Slumbering sound or moan
Or grunt or wail

Plaintively will break
The comfortable silence   for me
But not for you
Your lumbering struggling

Breath   or gasp
Where are your eyes
Focused   Ah, yes   you can see
Me barely sitting at the end

Of that dark tunnel
A glimmer of light    never knowing
That words would fail
To emanate from those frail lips

One breath, yes just one word
I understand    you said a word

The birds went missing for some days
I did not fail to see them
For I can keep tabs on their commings
By the feed level in the silo

I wonder, have they departed?
Did the entire gathered multitude
All the species and varieties
At once get summoned by a grand poobah

Ah No.  They’re back
Voracious, suddenly.  Perhaps an appetite
Built up from long journeys South to heat
Returned as quickly to a stable staple supply

El viejo, baggy clothes and vaguely rancid
Arrives at the tickety tockety place
The pigeons dance head first, feet next
He knows each by his dull colour

At the trough they proceed in size order
Pleasing my delicate sense of propriety
Titmouse, cardinal, blue jay, woodpecker
A grub abides among the seed

I observe

The memories have always been there
I never observed

When work matters dominated
my world order

The thought of one low-level bully
Repeatedly appeared

Guiding me slowly to the self-
referential argument.  Never decided.

Where did my mind cling
While I reverently shaved?

Infrequently, did I nick my phyllo flesh
And blame the dough roller razor in my hand

While the hell of razor-leaved tree-
Jungles surrounded my mind

But now
Now a torrent of important memories
Tied to love and loss
Yearning

Bake the leavened dough
Of my empty existence

There’s a tree in the road
Not in the middle
But it can’t be confused for being
Off

Two cars cannot pass abreast
Polite driving may be necessary
Who was in charge of the decision
To trust human nature,
To entrust safety and cooperation to those who follow?

I arrived after this phenomenon was well-established
How could this be?  How did it come to be?

I
The road was an afterthought
Paved years after the tree was firm
Autos rarely passed this way, lorries never
Should you wish to traverse
The tree takes precedence
As river traffic takes precedence over vehicles crossing a bridge
The bridgekeeper must obey - the tree is firm not flowing.

II
The tree was a sapling when the road was built
A mere twiglet unobserved by most
Her massive trunk growing imperceptibly year after year
One ring after another
Until tectonic forces lifted the road ocean floor
Becoming one with the tree mountain.

III
The tree was well established and observed to be a hazard
But the road is small
And the beauty of the oak
And the comfort of the shade
Bring joy to those
Walking and living
Cars be ******
Let them find their way.  However it is

IV
Our civil engineers are conducting an experiment
There are conflicting interests
Between the Road Advocates and the Tree-ers
RA: “For safety sake, Tear Down That Tree!”
Tree-ers: “We can live in harmony”
Germany or Switzerland
A tie vote.  What to do?

V
Mr. Hitchins, a kind community-minded resident
Willed to the City, fair, the once-thin alleyway
Which grew into a shunway; then a dirt trench; then a passage
Passing from the lonely two way street in front
Through to the loading area behind.
From 1856 until 1973 the road was sparsely used.
Upon proclamation of the Burghers
“Civilised society warrants paved roads.”
Whereupon the deed was dusted off
Provision 12.b.1. of Mr. Hitchens’ will:
“Let it be known to all who hear these words,
that the strip of land running from Virginia Street
to Ferris St, on Platt 687, recorded in book 14009
be and forever is the property of the Fair City
subject only to the right of my favorite tree, Emily, the Oak
to forever reside as she currently is - just on the West side of the strip.”

I arrived long after this phenomenon was established.

Familiar enough, they live in the same flat
Sleeping on the other side of paper walls
Phone calls muffled.  Or clear as day
When nighttime drama has been peaked

Passing when scurrying
Off to work, out for a walk
Gone to the beach for a breather.
They politely nod with pleasantries and smiles

              The flat is surrounded
              By invisible but ever-present
              Life forms
              Who arrived recently

The three sages, the visitor, the novice
In the novitiate all strangers
We try hard.  To be civil, kind, pleasant
We would do well to have a warm relationship

Sitting at breakfast on Tuesday morning
Master encounters the viejo leaving
“oh, hi”
Frequently those would be
The only two syllables to pass
Each of their lips

               “We are here to guide, protect and educate”.
               The disembodied women and children
               Steeped in ages of tradition
               Have found their way here.  Or were they summoned?

Rising slowly the Master stops the flow
And cuts into recognized routine
“I have something for you,
I made it last night.”

That evening, Tuesday, another chance encounter
The docent, el viejo and the Master
Chat comfortably, alone, without the others
A quiet and peaceful cabal

               The building was a shop
               Or perhaps, a parts supply warehouse Which
               Upon installation of sacred statues
               Became a sanctuary.  With a loft

Do you practice in a particular way?
Are you comfortable in the expectations
When your inevitable death arrives
Are your wills stout and resolute?

You have heard of Kabbalah, of course
The concepts strange to me
Numerology
I’ll stick to what I know, goodnight.

               Let them go to slumberland
               Attend the special space
               Where they can see
               A Pure Land

It was raining on Sunday morning
They left the house and got into the van
It smelled like stale cigarette smoke
Spilled beer and nylon glue

Travelling over the bridge
From north to south
Then slightly east to bell parkway
A constant drizzle

The row house was typical
The driveway big enough for only one car
Sloped downward toward the house
From the street level above

Introduce ourselves
Remove the gear
Observe the task
Oh, great.  This will take a while.

They worked in quiet.  Not in silence.
Sleepy, groggy.  Tired and cranky.
The basement was damp
Unlit, as a cost saving measure
There they worked efficiently

Today would have been a day of rest for the help
With the grand mixture of cultures
Yesterday was the day of rest for the buyers
But we knew it when we signed up.

It was raining on Sunday morning
And they made a few bucks
The elder said things like “daddy-O” and “now, we’re cooking with gas”
The younger held his tongue.