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.
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
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.