Off to the city, hitchhikers
secreted in folded denim:
grass seed, sawdust, gravel,
duff, country living’s cache,
Kicking up my heels, falling down
drunk, a small dump truck from home
spreads its load on the coddled
carpet of clean uptight
Fallen, the large tree
that owned this domain.
Its root ball — flesh-colored
that had dug in for its
Saplings that had stunted
in its shadow sing hallelujahs,
compete for new light.
The donkeys bathe in dust,
the one spot in the pasture
that shines bright on
Moved to another pasture,
they will excavate another crater,
grunt with pleasure scooting
along the ground on their spines,
then rise with festive brays and stand
again, refreshed. Giving the donkeys
a good pat, generations of dust rise up,
coughing out a cloud that engulfs us.
Heirloom carpets that have
never been cleaned, they are soon
back to their non-stop grazing.
Four big trees cut down —
we’ll watch the Japanese maple unbend.
the iris by the pond
up for the competition.
the butterfly lights
on my shoulder.
a rotting log.
As Death often
it is good
even if so little
as to shovel
As the rain starts
it is as if the first drops
are the hardest
Some set up time is required,
minute calibrations, calculating
a storm’s severity so that the wrath
of God will be noticed.
Or tuned for the slightest drizzle
so a couple might need to
lean into each other
wordlessly declaring their love.
Once the engines have warmed up,
there is an ease to its repetition.
The walkers with eyes downcast.
The rain returning from foreign seas.