A Few Grains Shifting

What were you thinking? that tomorrow has
arrived? that we’re standing somewhere other
than a graveside,
                           these flowers already wilted?

There was that poem that shifted a few grains
in the silo, creating a pocket of air for the child
to breathe long enough
                                     his father could find him.

The neighbor’s cows set the morning in motion.
The porch boards warp a little more each spring.
The intent of each purpose
                                          has yet to be known.

After an hour of reading, only a few words
remain—just as, walking the woods, you remember
a hollowed-out beech
                                  with bees spilling forth.

I, too, believe the things of this world have
messages to preach. How could I not,
the air full of wind
                             full of pollen and seeds.

 

A Kind of Day Anyone Could Have

I know there’s too much sweetness in my thoughts.
I should get bedraggled or destitute and give up
these syllables for the gutturals of grief.

Echoes return, though I’m seldom certain of their
source. A lifetime of reading and all I can say
is the words overlap and blur the whole thing.

Towns once passed I have imagined as home,
fitting myself to the sounds of their shops.
I shake out bread crumbs from letters I receive.

It wasn’t my hand that cast the first stone
but only because I was off to the side
too busy amassing and arranging my pile.

Whatever’s worth finishing is worth starting again.
A few wrong roads lead to years made of joy.
Beneath snowdrifts some seeds are opening their eyes.