Aging arms
splotched with purple and red
signs of tangling
with jagged, dead branches
reach for a copy
of Ted Kooser’s
Flying at Night
Pages flip,
stopping here and there
to read about
Sunset, Carp,
and Spring Plowing.
Envy swells inside
with the realization
that he will never
write such fine poems
about memories
of childhood adventures
Like Kooser,
he was raised
living in the countryside
among tiger lilies
blooming in the meadows,
near newborn calves t
eetering toward their first steps,
and around freshly spread manure,
capturing the scent of fall air.
His fingers grimy
from early morning planting
place the volume
carefully beside
his empty coffee cup
content that he is blessed
to have discovered Kooser’s work
He rises to tackle
digging potholes
for double begonias
to decorate his yard
and to dream his dream
of pages unread
and pages unwritten