Journey Home

You have to know
when to set out on your journey,
and when to stay home,
see what is about to bloom,
and what needs clearing.
So pull out the rubber boots,
the pointed trowel, the rake,
the heart shaped hoe your grandmother loved
and set to work.
Free the shrubs from overgrowth
of fallen leaves,
clip broken, dried maple branches
so the shape shows clear.
Brace up yellow daffodils hanging low
from late spring rains.
Broadcast food for roses
already sending shoots.
Pull weeds sparingly,
as a gesture to order,
but don’t let them fill your vision.
Look up to see
quince, early lilac, snow drops,
forget me nots
already flowering.
Remember all those other springs—
children, friends, fathers, mothers—
that bloom with
secret fragrance
as you explore the inside
of the horizon.

Flower tales

Let roses spread their news
to clouds of bees,
proclaim their brilliant hues
in noonday sun.
I’d rather be a columbine,
bloom quietly in shade,
a crimson splash
only the careful notice.
I’d spread my petals,
hope for bees to seek me out,
my leaves turned up
to catch the filtered light,
delicately strong.
Rain would fall gently
on me, where I shelter
under arching branches,
wide green leaves above.
Resplendent in my colors
spread wide,
I’d stretch out to greet the sky,
my face open,
hair pulled back,
a rocket tail,
as I journey in place
rooted deep,
hoping for singing birds
on the look out
for adventure.