At some point you just have to post and that point is today, now.  Posting three and that leaves me only one down.  Steps forward if not catching up.  Family and business have kept me so busy for 4 days I haven’ had time to think.  Now the pressure is on, which is the reason for doing this:  no waiting til the muse speaks.  Sit in front of the computer and get something on paper.  It doesn’t have to be perfect, but writers must write, so here you go.

Poem 85

The man-made pond is shaped like a lima bean, surrounded by rhododendrons, Virginia creeper, and in the spring, fragrant lilies of the valley; it has lively lily pads peopled by noisy frogs, water skimmers and fish.  Twenty-five years ago there were seventeen goldfish, tiny splashes of sun that looked like they were flying in the trees reflected in the clear water. A succession of snappers brought the number to seven.  Years passed.  Hawks came to nest in the front yard and stood watch over the dark water trying hard for the fish but mostly winding up with wet feathers and an empty belly.  The frogs were easier to catch.  The hawks would come in the winter and sit over the frozen pond.  I watched them from my office window.  My worry was not warranted.  Every spring we heard the babies crying in the woods, saw them learn to fly from the driveway.  When we left last year I hoped the house would sell to someone who would care.  It didn’t but renters were finally found.  We left only three finned friends and then only one and I wondered what it is like to be last of anything.  Yesterday I returned to clean the pond out for the frogs, and found in the depths, to my delighted surprise, 3 black, one black and gold and one small gold fish – pieces of joy hiding in the reflections.  I thought grandpa had died, but no, there he was in the deep end.  Daily I read the world is falling apart, but for this day I am hopeful.  What I saw wasn’t the story.  The real story keeps revealing itself to me, one fish at a time.

Poem 86

Six orchids now five
fed special food, sprouting leaves.
New roots make new buds.

The root word is eco, from the Greek oikos, meaning household.  Both are art even though one claims to be able to measure the world on two axes: guns and butter.  One says “profit” and equates it to “progress,” the other says “misuse” and equates it to “water” without which nothing on the land can live.  We who name the terms cannot agree on their connotations, the roots too old and twisted for any communication.

Poem 87

The moon is waxing and
under her light
fireflies brighten the approach of night
blink on blink off – the pattern a potent
call to watching ladies. Beyond the back fence
kittens tumble in the twilight, feral,
increasing to numbers that are unsustainable
as I watch the toms watch a young female. They
don’t have the right pattern – yet – and she
stalks away.