Thursday, August 15, 2019

Villanelle

At the end of your life
you’re gonna be all used up”

When does it end?
The redbud holds no blooms.
When will it be spring again?

Her leaves were torn by autumn winds.
Winter became cold so soon.
After the frost, will it end?

Summer dried her broken limbs
and lightning struck her through.
Please let it be spring again.

If she had a forest of friends,
instead of dry grass and a few
stones, she’d not hope to meet her end.

Her twig ends do not bend.
Green grows not in her shoots.
She doesn’t know it’s spring again.

Early chirpings have hope to lend,
though her trunk’s core is a tomb.
This redbud has met this end,
though it’s finally spring again.


Saturday, August 10, 2019

Death

For Jan Tilley

Death is a form of rebirth.
We've come down to Earth,
or we were born out of star
dust to be a light far

from where we're born. Death
is our friend; she'll be
there in the end. Breath
tends to fend for keeping

us alive. The darkness
wakes us to what matters.
My friend, your kindness
leaves others in tatters.

Thank you.


Friday, August 9, 2019

Tater

I’m late-night writing,
and I break some ripening
garlic to cleanse my blood.
I find myself searching

for bulb skins beneath 
the refrigerator—thinking:
"Tater can’t eat these
garlic skins. It’ll hurt him."