rainstorm’s aftermath— from the flowerpot’s full lip a honeybee sips
lawn chair, beer, evening my dog on his mat, I watch his observations with such love --- evening, on his mat my dog—with such love, I watch his observations
my internet self— the clouds, the epitome overhead of cloud --- my internet self— the clouds overhead, of cloud the epitome
A shaggy hedge of purple thistle blossoms intermingle with the unmown grasses and the milkweed flowers already half closed—I embrace everything I cannot know.
Probably,
I would have been on my computer.
Instead,
because of the injury,
I was at the sink, when,
just outside the window,
the hummingbird visited
every single pansy blossom, poking
it’s needle beak into the tiny divot
at the center of each
cream and pink blossom,
and then, in exhaustion
perched briefly
on the spindly stalk of a stem.
Also, I
was in the backyard when
the monarch decided to visit
the milkweed spheres
of tiny blossoms.
And I,
with my small and non-comprehending dog,
saw the bucks in velvet
as they browsed their way across
the freshly cut hayfield
just to the north.I make lists
and this one could be
all the ways I tried to look away
and pretend the door is closed
or
it could be
all the times I turned back around
away from my tinkering
and neat conclusions
to find the door still there
wide open
and still
admitting
nothing,
but the wet cool touch of my dog’s nose on the back of my knee,
and the dazzling lineaments of light playing along a pool’s aqua bottom,
and my own name in my mother’s voice,
remembered, remembered,
recalling me from sleep.