|Nebraska Center for Writers|
POESIE FOR PABLO//PICK ME NOW
If only we could touch like flowers bloom color,|
one white petal filling a field.
How would you carry me then?
I could be the daffodil, angry that you did not call,
or an iris, bearded wisps weeping,
a rose asking fame or money to unfurl me,
dainty marguerite, happy white hands,
a golden face dancing, in the sunlight,
dancing in this wind of breath.
Carry me in the basket of your body.
THE FLEXIBLE FLYER
An old gift from a farmer's barn,|
the boards crumbling splinters,
a piece of old blanket on it,
some wire connecting it all,
rusty runners that still slide on snow-packed streets,
walk and run to pull her on ice
on the edge of town,
wooden painted Victorian skaters silent on ice
welcome us to more than the village,
past shabby houses
past nice older houses,
the colored lights glow
large wreaths with ornaments
lights on angels hung on light poles
down the main street,
on the snow sparkling magic,
feet crunching, then gliding,
burning cold on faces, burrowing into coats,
holding our mittens together,
lifting our faces to the silent night,
Dashing through the Snow,
O Come all ye Faithful,
God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,
let all the earth sing,
let all the skies joyfully raise:
the widow Murray gives us
sugar cookies and hot cocoa,
let us give thanks and praise!
I have killed almost every new thing|
you have planted. Today I mowed over
two more of your lilacs. Four down,
six more to go of the ten you got
from the Arbor Day Foundation.
Once I went around them carefully,
bent to free them of tiny weeds.
Now even the gardens I planted
have moved away from me,
weeds grown over them higher
than my knees.
And the apples rot under the tree,
I have wasted your life.
The house that Dorothy left
was pigeon front gray,
feather paint peeling,
wood alone on its earth.
The reach of the land
Somewhere along the flat rows,