Make Summer Glad

Find wood, gather kindling, strike a match to crumpled paper. 

Toast marshmallows, squish them warm between two graham crackers and chocolate. 

Take the rain flap off the top off the tent to look at the stars. They are waiting for you. 

Sleep naked beside someone you love. 

Make a warm oven under the duvet where cold can't reach. 

Caress flesh and feel the cares of pavement, malls, florescent lights, traffic, and technology flee. 

Pump the coleman lantern. Marvel at the mantles.

Pump the coleman stove. Light the burner. 

Set the tea kettle to whistle time for cocoa, spiced cider, or tea. 

Touch a toe to the freezing water. Go in if you dare, but never skinny dip........alone. 

Stay awake until the coyotes howl and mourning doves coo. 

Listen for owls and wrestling raccoons. 

Stay bundled, cocooned in the morning until your bladder won't let you wait another minute. 

Put layers on. Unzip the day. Fry bacon. Boil coffee. 

Give morning hope and call the sunshine to breakfast.

Lay on your back with wild flowers and blow clouds across the sky. 

Sing to the fire, make it dance. 

Gather a bouquet of violets or willow leaves and dress the table.

Poke the wood surrounded by bruised flames and loose the sparks. 

Look for little people in hollow logs or under mushrooms. 

Listen for the silence to speak.

Let trees embrace your ache.

Let scents of pine and pitch and smoke soothe your anxious thoughts. 

Allow the quiet to cushion your heart. 

Notice the water lapping at the edges. 

Camp unencumbered. Camp uncluttered. Camp unfettered. 

Sweep the dirt if you must and clean your fingernails, but let go of primping and scrimping and limping. 

Swing in a hammock all day and accomplish nothing except daydreams.  

Seedling Volunteers

pop up uninvited. 

They sprout without 

being watered, fertilized,

or planted on purpose.

They don't write letters 

begging for support

or pretend like prayer 

is what they want more 

than money. Volunteers 

sprout because they 

grub stake themselves.

They c'est la vie grow and 

c'est la vie bloom, 
serendipitists with
 a c'est la vie mission 

to sway and wave and add 

color to summer's gold. 

Their bold conception

changes perspective 

leaving fields effectively full 

of perennial potential. 

My garden is bursting with volunteer babies this year. Foxglove, cranesbill, sweat peas, nasturtiums. They delight me with their boldness and tenacity. They appear effortlessly and make me rejoice and be glad. 

My Garden

begs me for a walk along paths
through flower patches
where a driftwood bungalow
houses little people hiding.
Large Marge bosses the Mermaid
and the mama hen with three chicks
under her wings from her
throne under the loggia
which is only a simple
garden room covered
with five finger acebia
and hung with sea foam
green windows rescued
from the discard pile.
Sweet peas clamber up
posts, trees, wattled twigs,
and fences. Nearby plants
are shocked to find
themselves wedded to
these bold extroverts
clinging without permission
in a cozy choke hold. If I stay
still maybe I'll become
a sweat pea obelisk and
bumblebees will argue
about who gets to pollinate
my imagination.

The Fire Eater

wants to swallow
the feeble flame of me
standing alone
neck deep
wicking a puddle
of melted sadness.
I chase him away
with a slap
to his maw
and tell him
to go
straight to hell.
Taking action
fans the flame
that eats the puddle
of melted sadness
and turns pain
into fossil fuel
               again.

Ancient Love in the Safeway Parking Lot

He and his cane
shuffled over to her

side of the car
to open door.

He tucked his cane under

his armpit to use both

hands to straighten her

collar as she straightened

her creaky knees and

and rumpled clothes.

They tottered toward

the door with steps synced,

canes on the outside,

holding hands on the

inside.

I passed quickly,

then slowed my stride

to ask them how long

they had been married.

Sixty seven years he said

as he looked at her like he

must have looked at her

coming down the isle.

Winking, he said they

were thinking of making

it permanent.

Ahhhh. 

The holy permanence

of seasoned love.

She's Going To Be Alright

While I played nanny 

with borrowed kids in the park

 a little girl came to talk as

I nudged two swings into rhythm

with both arms. One held

 a baby boy in a basket.

The other held his sister

who liked the wind

 teasing her hair. 

She wanted to know if 

I was their grandma. 

I said no.

I wanted to know 

if she stopped 

to smell the purple flowers

when she passed the yard

dripping with blossoms 

on the way from preschool

to the park. She knew 

which yard I spoke of

 but said no,

 I always want to 

but we don't have time 

to smell flowers 

because everyone 

needs to hurry 

and stay together

 in line. 

She shrugged 

the tragedy off

 and let it lay in the 

playground chips, then

turned her shining face 

up to me and the sun and said, 

I'm a princess because 

my mama's a queen and 

my daddy's a 

king.