High Summer Poems

Aug 16, 2026

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Cherry tomato—
so long anticipated,
that first singing bite.

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Series of movements
as yoga, tai chi, stepped through
while picking pole beans.

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Everything needed
already here—rebuilding
with old scrap lumber.

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How they enliven
this room, these last blooms, saved from
the fading cosmos.

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Seen through the screen door, 
rain bursting down—a tirade,
brief and unfinished.

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Blessed bread broken,
passed, and eaten—in all things
nourishment, teachings.

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Blister wreaths garland
my ankles—a reminder
to pay attention.

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The sounds of summer—
yawn of pre-dawn thunder, pop
of the sealed jar’s top.

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Inverted august
days—the garden’s bounty keeps
me from the garden.

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To wake and not scratch,
to pull out what’s dead, reseed,
to weed with patience.

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Old ragged leaves, trimmed
to protect and promote new
growth from the living.

Selected Poems