spider

Poem of the Week

Gandhi In The Garden

Respect, my dear
he whispers as we walk
through purple-tipped heather
among the bees, slow
from the night's chill
the world turning toward autumn.
Even the worms are wise
about some things.
We pass the persimmon, my sister,
a skeleton hung with dots of fire
its voice a rustle of wind.
The worms are in charge now
and how shall we wake
from their dream
of our graves?
His answer
an eddy of visible warmth
rises from fallen leaves.
Be the change,
the brown bulb,
the flesh of spring.

Prior Poem

Preservation

Jewel-colored jars collect
On our cellar shelves,
Cool as May spins
Toward the furnace of July,
Warm as October gathers
Frost, bright examples of
All we wish to savor
From good days past:
Golden dandelions pressed
Into sweet wine,
Tomatoes, pickles, violet plums,
Apricot sunsets captured
Beside dried chamomile, mint,
faintly summer scented.
January always comes,
Count on it,
Trees empty of all but snow.
Then we must light a fire,
Speak of each brilliant berry,
Spoons clinking
Against boiled glass.

Offsite Poetry

More of my poetry is available at:

The Poetry Super Highway and
Gravity