When I returned Noe
to the earth and she sent
her staccato of sweetness up
into the unending sky,
I was not yearning
for more than I was given.
Then the blueberries got
to chattering all along
the lattice of the deck and
you rose from your empty
decade, your margin of darkness
to reach a bracken arm in.
Volunteer is what they call it
when a plant chooses you.
I did not know how to be chosen.
You showed me how the husk
of an old life becomes a chorus.
You showed me receiving
could be as simple as holding
up my empty hands.
Posted by kind permission of the poet.
Here is the landscape of my son, prying open the horizon with his grin, of…
Yes there is fear. Yes there is isolation. Yes there is panic buying. Yes there…
Walking the river back home at the end of May, locust in bloom, an oriole…
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