Front Porch 3/11/18

Front Porch 3/11/18

I can hear the gulf from my porch

though I can’t see it without driving.

Birds are signaling their happiness

despite the promised storm of today.

Pink flowers on the wrists of glossy green

branches, like gloves on the ends of mangroves,

waving quietly from behind the recycling

waiting for the promised storm of today.


Some birds chat.

Others demand.

A family shouts over one another,

their cries for love so loud

that the birds quiet to hear

the way we do for their songs.

Only birds must feel glad

instead of wishing they were us.


Crickets whisper their location.

Sometimes they take a breath.

They grind and buzz and whistle,

unafraid of the birds.

The clover is soft and tickles

as I tiptoe towards the garden.

The crickets hold their breath

while I hold mine and wait.


Could the oregano know

something I don’t?

It smells nice when crushed,

grows after it’s been cut.

Its roots reflect its life, spreading

just enough, just enough,

turning organic waste into pesto.

Housing worms, grubs, bug skeletons.


Sprinkles fall with the leaves,

shaped the same, speaking differently.

Did I miss something?

Our words miss their mark?

Clouds don’t change the sun

but can kill trees anyway.

I still hope for accuracy

and a clear spring day.

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