The First Sunday Evening in June

The first Sunday evening in June is like that famous score by John Cage titled 4’33”. He had the idea to write a piece of music that instructed every musician to simply and simultaneously rest: to not play any note or sound for four minutes and thirty-three seconds. It was an experimental, unprecedented undertaking, and

Fireflies in May

I was raking in the backyard last night at twilight, and the corner of my eye caught what I took to be a firefly. I stopped my work, and my gaze quickly followed the upward sparks of my soul ascending from my dew-pointed pasture into the cool evening air. I looked for the firefly to

Meadowbreeze Lane

A swarm of swallows trims the grass One dive bomb at a time, And the bumblebee checks all the flowers To find a pair that rhyme. Every wingéd beast and insect Gaily, madly, gads about, But the red-winged blackbird bobs along Like his shrew has turned him out. May 1, 2020

The Greens of May

It’s the morning after the gala, and even the Cherry admits she overdid it this year. The Lilac’s purple litter has fallen and faded, and the King’s crown lies in state. The canopy’s canvas is bourgeoning with green— twenty different shades of verdancy gleam in fourteen splendored hours of sunlight. The blushing boughs of April

I Have An Antique Rose

I have an antique rose; She waits patiently for me. When I draw nigh with pruning shears, She utters not a plea. Her thorny branches twine in knots, They tangle by degrees. Yet when I start to thin them out, She neither fights nor flees. She stands in proud defiance, An indomitable foe; It’s ne’er

My Lilacs

I do not— when my feet at long last find Jordan’s verdant banks, in those fleetly fading moments between my final breaths, before the curtain falls upon my mortally shuffled coil— I do not want to there remember or know any reason to regret that I neglected or did not otherwise seize even a single

Dump Trip Saturday

Dump Trip Saturday is sacred among Saturdays. It stands alone unto itself, unique and holy. Its rites and rituals are solitary and serene; their execution is communal (and clamorous!). . Dump Trip Saturday is always borne from Saturdays past: A pile of scraps after a completed project, appliances failed beyond repair, a neglected playhouse, a

To the Forgotten Lady

Every year,
at about this time…
…it happens that
I beg forgiveness of a tree

Every Branch That Does Bear Fruit

Pruning whispers a metaphor every spring, but this year it seemed to grab me by the face and look me directly in the eyes.

Up to the Light

My younger daughter spent a considerable amount of time (I am told) writing this note for me the other day. She was so obviously pleased with herself and her tiny correspondence that she met me at the front door and wriggled like Christmas morning as she told me where in the house to find the note