When the bond between a family
is removed by chance
and scattered to the winds
the family may come apart

To be legit
do poems always have to be deep?
Do they need to burst open
spilling metaphor
simile
or can they just be about anything
like the young doe
standing in the woods across the driveway
from my window
like a statue
silent
but for the sound of green maple leaves
being ground between her teeth
her eyes fixed
on the movement in the window
as a middle aged man
writes about poetry.

She went away my little girl
sure she was seventeen
but she'd always been around
my kid
my daughter
my friend
yes, singing

She was always responsible
smart and funny
musical and funny
emotional
kind, apathetic and funny
yes funny

Then she went away
today she returned

Different

More poised
More confident
More
Grown up
Less a teen
more an adult

Different

And yet
still
wickedly
brilliantly
funny.

It seems that to some
that I hate a certain cat
just because I used his call
as a punctuation mark in a previous poem.

That I hate this certain cat
is not the case at all.
His meows serve as a punctuation mark in another poem
and only as that, like the shout of a man.

Not the case at all
this perceived dislike of said feline
and just like the shout of a man
his attention can be welcomed at times.

This perceived dislike of said feline
is not always a correct read of the relationship.
His attention can be welcomed at times,
late at night watching tv is one such time.

A correct read of the relationship
would be one of mutual understanding,
of a shared love late night TV
while absentmindedly scratching between a pair of furry cat ears.

The hush of the morning breeze
whispers through aged pines
The rush of tires on asphalt
As an unseen car moves an unseen driver
Closer to the start, or end I guess, of a workday

Meow

The birds begin to wake
Softly at first
Then, as more and more of them awaken
The chorus grows louder and louder
Filling the near stillness with a multitude of calls

Meow, meow

A squirrel scurries in fits and starts
Across the shingle roof outside my window
An acorn, not yet ripe falls from the oak out front
And hits the slate walk
Heard this morning where as the sound would pass unnoticed later in the day

Meow, meeeoooww, meow

Then there's the cat

Hidden under the honeysuckle
and hibiscus
Lies a stone.
And as I sit, drinking a gin and tonic
Looking over the spent plates
where crusty bread
fried calamari, which is a fancy word for squid,
and two Oysters Rockefeller
sat
until recently consumed by two parents
both in that awkward state of freedom
and longing
when their child is at camp,
out past the ducks on granite rocks
puffing themselves up
flapping their wings
towards afternoon sun on Winnipesaukee
my thoughts and eyes are drawn back
to the wheel of stone
leaning against the rotting wall of railroad ties
covered in a remoulade of Honeysuckle
Rose of Sharon
and other viney things
that are unidentifiable to me.
It has been painted during its time
but the paint is faded and chipped
and the feeling is that the stone
has outlived the painter.
Yet I do wonder.
What was its job 50, 100, 200
years ago?
Was it in a mill?
Did it lie flat, grinding?
Did it roll, upright, crushing things?
What else did they use round stones for?
Is this what retirement for a working stone is?
Cast to the side,
forgotten
hidden under the honeysuckle
and hibiscus
in an alley next to a waterside Wolfboro restaurant
where parents sit
Looking at Winnipesaukee
over spent plates of bread, squid and Oysters Rockefeller
thinking of a child at camp.

Webbed feet grasp wet granite
And after standing taller
a series of *****
send water,
like diamonds in the afternoon sun
from wing tips
And
bourne by Newtons theory
return to Winnipesaukee