I remember Buffalo-
Amherst actually, but the suburb not the college town
My nephew lives in Amherst
But the college town not the suburb

My grandmother lived in Buffalo
Amherst really
and my dad too
My grandfather died there, before I was born

We never said we were going to Amherst
We said Buffalo
Like someone from Los Alamitos might say
they were from Los Angeles

But Buffalo was where grandmother was
But not the fun one
The fun one lived in Gloversville
Which is near Amsterdam, my mom used to tell us it was Amstergosh

Still, Amherst had soft boiled eggs for breakfast
a giant oriental rug on which a small boy could play
but just with his Matchbox cars
and a blow-up Sinclair dinosaur

There was the garage with doors at both ends
Perfect for hiding a car
From brothers-in-law
On a wedding day

There was the giant Chrysler
light green as I recall
In the driveway past which the neighbors lived
with their iced tea with mint and lemon

There were Uncle John and aunt Mimi
Who were like my great uncle and aunt
Except they weren't
Just really close family friends

Uncle John was the one who told me at the age of five
"Always tell a woman you need to leave an hour before you actually have to leave"
We were waiting for Mimi to "get ready" so we could go somewhere
She was taking forever

I do remember Buffalo
Amherst really
But I know there is so much more
that I've forgotten

Tiny visitor on my window
Unseen as both you come and go
But noticed just the same
Been singing since you came
How long your song will last I do not know

Cool rain falls on warm lawns, gluttonous grass drinks deep, becomes tall and fat.

Amber
with a head of foam
refreshing to a point
then, after too many,
not refreshing at all
only rented

They say "it's never easy to go home"
Which is true, sometimes.

I went home today to the hole where, until two days ago
the house where I had spent most of my life before marriage
stood.
It's gone now leaving only a hole
and as big as the hole looked
in the bright sunshine of a Connecticut Sunday in May
It is not as big, I know, as the hole in my sibling's heart
having had to say good bye to the only house
she had ever known.

The service dog sees
that among the children
his veteran is safe
but still, he watches

Hard to know the number of "friends" that live out past where lawn meets wet
Their dusk song speaks of a throng that participates post sunset
Slick wet sopranos sing a stream with sudden baritone splashes

Re-awakened grass reaches from last week's cut and for today, wins

Bright green buds on dead sticks as Hydrangea, like Lazarus, rises.

With blooms apparent, "crocus patch" revealed as amaryllis instead.

Happy day
Moving from
Old to new

Spring peepers peep in newly warmed wetlands, bullfrogs nerver peep.

Don't judge a book by its cover.
It could be hollowed out
In the shape of a gun
To hold one
Undetected
Or
On an old man's bookshelf
Still the hollow shape
Of a gun
Filled with wrapped candy
A stash
Protected from his wife

At a new home, warm air and sun bring forth random daffodils

Late snow falls through warm air landing on young daffodils, doomed

The rose in vase can't see snow outside
for the rose in the vase...
however radiant,
beautiful....
Is still dead.

The last snow grabs at new green shoots, indifferent crocus awaken

An old green motel chair
sits on a flagstone porch
overlooking a lake
and a gap in the mountains
the center of which frames
another peak.
The chair has outlived
three generations
of my family
who are drawn here
to this spot
in West Virginia
where a mountain is reflected,
mirrored in fact,
in the lake
created by my great-grandfather
for that very purpose.

I tend
to be
a short form
kind of guy

Heads raise
eyes question
false buried
anguish flies
echoes
stronger demons hang
awaiting their turn

The promise of a gurney
is that things will be fine
unless
the sheet covers your head

Daffodil sprouts say spring, yet the weatherman says not

As remnant snow fails to reach the ground,
promising sunlight through window
warms cold feet
placed there
by an eager
lover of summer

Through falling snow bird feeder appears empty, victim of a night thief

Crocus sprouts unaware of the snow that is coming soon

Today
After forty three years
Of love
Loss
Happiness
Anguish
The family house
Passes to another
To be razed
But remembered forever.

I seem to buy disposable socks
I buy them
I wear them
I put them in the laundry basket

I never see them again

Ever

Weary snow banks are pixilated by drops of rain on my window.

Why does the titmouse
flick from feeder to clothes line
with his small beak still empty?

Titmouse does this as
your face is in the window
the face of a grumpy bear

Late season snow falls through warm air and briefly lies doomed by daffodils.

February cold sneaks beneath my floor and grabs bare feet through tile

Bitter north wind propels beach sand across the shell of a late infant

young talons on a snowy roof mean no small beaks at the feeder below

fragile white crystals crushed by cold feet of twigs and fallen birdseed

small waves speckle shore rocks and summer sun erases

Winter wind doesn't care
and freezes skin that's left bare

is currently in beta
and all in the wrist

is not disclosed
and worse than the crime
is weak?
is weak
and totally chic
climbing the radio charts
is probably almost as old as the art of tattoo
is the road to ruin

Things were done
well,
or badly.

Ok, I get it.

The answers I have
are what I have
and
just because
my answers
aren't what you want,
or need so desperately
to hear from my lips
to fit your view
or agenda
does not mean that
I am not telling you all that I know.

Last night's wings
have become Buddy Rich
in my stomach.

Today,
two thin gleaming lines
run parallel from
her
to her family.

Two more,
lead from her family
to her future.
But,
not today.

The kid is away.
I miss her when she's not here.
She's gone to see friends in DC.
She comes home today
and it will be good to have her home.
However,
since she's almost 18...
I know
that
this is
just the beginning.

Tiny copper Abe Lincoln
rests on damp sand
amongst minuscule pieces of driftwood
a baby scallop shell
and tiny clams
waiting for another assassin,
this one the sea
to come and take him away from us
again

I am sorry for no card
No flowers
No chocolates
I was sick but that is no excuse

I do love you
I do

I am the child
running through a sunlit field playing airplane
My arms outstretched
Taking me me were the wind points me
Singing la la la
While you remain firmly on the ground
Centered and steadfast
Eyes to the future

My arms always fly me back to you
To the warmth of yours
Because
Every day
For twenty years
You've shown me
That despite my failings
My shortcomings
The hard times
Lean times

That you love me too.

The end is coming soon
Contracts are inked
Agreements and inspections done

So after the deal is done,
and the house gone, soon  to be razed
what will be a mother's legacy?

A new home in a town nearby
A secure business on the west coast
A range of new possibilities waiting to be taken
College for a granddaughter

None of which
A mother knew possible
Before she was gone

What defines the line between
Like
and
Love?

Are there ranges of either?
We use the words a lot.
About people
food
drink
cars
TV shows

Do I love Salmon?
Yes

Do I love my wife?
Yes

Do I love Salmon as much as my wife?
I'd have to say no.
So there must be a range of love.

And what of like?
I like certain cars.
I like some of the people I work with.
Do I like cars as much as some of the people I work with?
I'd have to say no.

I really like cars.

Love
is how
heart and eyes
feel

Who is the more powerful?
The vengeful god
who delivers pain
and loss
and suffering?
Or those on whom
the pain and loss and suffering
are heaped upon
whose blind faith,
often pushed beyond any reasonable limit,
is the only thing
that keeps the god
alive?

How cold the morning tile
against bare feet.
I need slippers.

Or

A picture of a duck
standing on a frozen pond.

The wind is clueless.
It blows without thought,
or consequence.
It promises freedom
when there is none.
Not yet anyway,
for the tiny seed,
it's diaphanous tail
frozen

for a time

to an icicle
hanging from my porch roof
melting in the sun

The wind is cold this morning
and howls.
Frustrated perhaps that there is so much to do.
To move powder
from roofs,
decks
and lawns.
Heaping it in great dunes
against my windows,
on my porch
and at my door.