What Is

Cutting pine, the clamp of fallen branches on wet grass;
Titmouse and Carolina Wren, clear and rough saws.
The soft click of the rainbow chime, shells sliced
in geometric shapes, waiting for wind;
two squirrels chasing tails around the solid chunk of oak;
piercing chips of Cardinals, somewhere near, then far.

Flight of cumulus, hurrying to the east, the ocean,
waiting to stir up trouble, tropical depression and hurricane,
the birth of force, elemental as breath.
Lavender and white salvia buried under good dirt and prospering.

The morning meeting with the slow-to-thaw savior,
one who demands nothing. The pinch of reality.

Bevy of four o'clocks, heads bright
yellow, pink, fuschia, maroon,
steadily off kilter with their evening bloom.
The rush of leaves, clean swish of fixed flight;
prayer flags, waving, dull three years under the roof.

Legs, spackled and scarred, the lone wrist with its black tat
"Harmony," the twin moving the black ink gel pen.
The butt in the seat of borrowed shorts,
the last drench of coffee,
buzz of the chainsaw, clunk of limb,
the calico cat asleep at my side
oblivious and calm, faithful as a soldier;
budgies atop their cage, gurgling song;
black bunny with his hidden hazel iris,
white forepaw, its run and chase, its nip and its nuzzle.

Dirt-handled shovel, standing in the rain, always ready;
the loom of thicket where the raccoon family hides.
Hive of vine encircling pecan, oak, maple;
the trees' old strength, endurance.
The sun shining like silver on a tin roof.

Reflection on year 55