Frames

Frames 

Put away the camera, set aside the cup.

The car is backing away. 

Take the sorrow, pick it up; 

Tomorrow is always waiting. 

I see them only in picture frames now.

The faces I have touched so many times. 

The hearts, the arms, the souls,

The lives once all tangled up with mine.

Memories warp and fade

Like the photographs that remain.

Purpose evades me relentlessly.

Outside the window pane,

The raindrops collect, 

And run down the glass

Turning the window putty into rot.

As it rattles, I catch a glance 

Of decomposing lilies in the yard,

Another winter is on the way,

So many will have passed that I lose count.

I have to check the birthdays 

On a calendar, now uncluttered by 

Appointments or reminders. 

I have nothing to keep track of

Except this emptiness of hours,

The silence of the rooms and halls,

A cupboard keeping just enough for me. 

Yes, a phone will ring sometimes, 

And I will have the family

At certain holidays,

Gatherings that end too soon, 

With long goodbyes after which

I sit in silence in my kitchen, 

Sipping concentrated coffee, 

As the cat stands on the windowsill.  

What happens to the purpose 

When the purpose is fulfilled? 

I keep a simple house, now. 

No voices, few decisions, or none at all,

Just wind chimes and blankets, 

And the pictures on the wall.

Good Fences

Cade’s Cove, Tennessee

Good fences

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,

He said, but something there is that craves one, too,

That sends a human groundswell, spills the water

Left for nomads in the sun.  Malicious elves, you say,

But that’s not it exactly, more like the kind of man

Who’d leave a bag of rattlesnakes on the front step

To keep anyone from coming in,

Or train coyotes how to circle on command.

Oh, I think he knows what he is walling in and walling out,

The old stone savage that he is, the apples

And the pine cones have nothing to do with it,

Just another form of taking for yourself

That which has been taken time and time again.

To Winter and Back Again

Miami River, Hamilton, Ohio

The sparrows and the martins—

Fly back and forth–to spring

They feel no icy footprint–

Or any unwelcome thing

If any leaf–turns less than green–

They turn their eyes away–

They must have color–in the view

They loathe the white and gray–

My heart’s a different traveler

That tends to fly–alone–

Seeking cool reception in

Less comfortable–zones

Brightness fools it into feeling–

a lonely thing to say–

Turn off the green–turn off the blue–

And then–it finds its way.

You can’t be like a martin

If you have–a human Soul

There is no way to travel–

With a heart–so light–and full

The sparrow rises in the air–

Her Song a holy office–

The human heart–only hears

The cracking sound–of ice

We dream of winds that lift our wings

To heaven, until–but then—

December comes, and takes our Soul

To winter and back again