that's mrs. mediocrity to you

perhaps in a book
or under a rock in a garden
dotted with daffodil

or a path down the side
of a long empty road
dancing sideways and laughing
in that way no one ever
wants to hear

there’s always folding laundry
into perfect measured
squares

or washing dishing
slowly
just as the sun
begins to settle

there are six snowdrops
by the back door

nine crocus

ten thousand leaves

(i counted)

but at night
in a room
filled with ghosts and
fraught silence

there is no way around
this bitter elephant
crushing my chest
and building a home

in the corners
of verity

i see you
eating darkness

feeding fear
and ancient bear

i see you bleeding tears
of collective memory

and you
keep visiting
my dreams

as if

there is something
left
to say

in a brief dawn moment
when i remembered
not to forget

to look down

to notice

three favorite flowers

fritillaria

(a poem in a name)

(a poem of a flower)

and i smiled
all day

.

.

.

there are so many things i cannot reach
so many miracles behind glass and
roses i’ll never cultivate
and all these days filled with bugs
and better thans and never enoughs

there is always that sky
through the tall short-lived poplars
growing faster than posterity

there is always a kitten
causing trouble in a field
of grey mice

there is always hope and
disappointment
always love
(that cliche of a word
even poets
can’t define)

and this one
grape hyacinth
growing stubborn
along the road
refusing to care
if i notice

.

.

.

mirror-moon and barely broken
downward dog and faintly spoken

i am hollow
i am raw
i am forgotten

i am refusal and predication
spitting out bitters
and smiling at wind-loose shutters

this is age and
this is mo(u)rning

and the narcissistic
narcissus
will never reveal
the long-etched key
to revival

.

.

.

prom dress pretty
and filled
with fresh hope

the irony
of this tall vase of tulips
primp-sitting
all bare and innocent
amidst kitchen-table clutter
and the convoluted
detritus
of a too-busy week

but these are my days
and no matter how messy

there are always flowers

sometimes fresh

sometimes dying

sometimes too long
past gone
for shame’s sake

always
flowers

always a smile

on a short-sheet friday

and life’s
funny bone
antics

silk purse
sow’s ear
and all that

.

.

.

i spent a year
listening

to grief and
revelation

hope and
degradation

i lost my voice
in the sound
of life
moving on

or death
pounding hooves
down fresh
black pavement

i’m here
now
on the
other side
of something

listening

again

to storm
and blossom

holding stories
in a heart

scarred from
blade

.

.

.

in the garden there is a tree that leans
oh so far to the right
(from where i sit)
and i smile at the audacity
of this refusal to break
this will to survive
this pugnacious affront
to convention

i write poems about age
(or simply think them)
understanding that crooked
is a different kind of tenacity
and the temerity of youth
is just blossom

mostly i remember
the silence
of a morning
meant for forgiveness
and the stars on that night
we walked to saturn

the birds eat berries
left long on winter branches
gone sweet with the yearning
to be free

.

.

.

clinging hard to the dance of dawn, delayed

and you can lie
belly up to the cold grey sky
letting go of all fear
til the hawk comes tapping
on one shoulder

nothing between us,
no shield,
no field,
nothing filling the corners
with debris

just these bold
reflection curves
and mist-mirrored
smiles

holding court
in a forest
of fancy

.

.

.

in the mirror of everything
sky raining down around you
in a pattern of potential
with the fortitude of grace
dripping cold from
squared-off shoulders
as if sunshine
could be ordered and
magnificence
presumed

.

.

.

.

.

all settled in

to the confine

of vine

and blooming

just the same

.

.

.