30 Jun 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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