Weeding
I weed as I wait for the dog to return with his catch not the kind of weeding I once did escaping the bickering of children going to the garden despite the rain.
Duke drops the orange and blue rubber ball it rolls under the staghorn fern to shelter in the soft dirt colorless dusty as the fallen rubble a continent away.
Tail wagging Duke eyes me knowing I will comply I see the faces of the young children their world exploding around them and still they have their faith I want to reach to them across impossibilities
I want to lift off the layers of decay cold and wet to let the life get back to growing the salt from my tears turns to grit on the tiny shells entombed in my small garden.
I toss the ball again. I pray in my way.
Land’s End
Like a country boil steamy hot and flies a ‘buzzing barelegged offspring chase fireflies
and the sky sparks secrets only children know
We sit and drink Tom Collins watch the sun glow orange and red pincer claws come unbidden
from the ashy turmoil of an evening burn
You cannot reanimate the dead there is no foothold in the hollow of heaven where myriad magi sweep
and bow slither and moan
You and I my friend like eggs bounce and crack bulbous white flesh bubbling
from fragile and impenetrable contour of shell
Hungering after amnesia
I am a poet, writer, and photographer living between Central Florida and Western New York, having retired from a career in journalism in New England. My work has been published in anthologies, and in print and online magazines, including Gargoyle Magazine, Vociferous Press, Pendemics, and Of Poems & Poetry. The first chapter of my novel This Season’s Girl (titled Tin’s Bended in its first draft and now seeking publication) was published in Embark Literary Journal.