Get low

You notice over the course

of a warm sunny week

in late April

that the new leaves

fill out the maple tree

from the bottom up

it is a surprising observation

you assumed

(they say not to, but you do)

that the buds at the top

would grow strongest and fastest

being that they are closest

to the sun

but then you stop to consider

that the lower branches

are closest to the earth

to the dirt and the darkness

the hidden sources of life

and that's when you fold up

your wings of wax

and begin to kneel

no longer afraid

to get low

in order to grow

The Mid-morning ride of the butterfly

With pure white wings

dipped in onyx

the elegance of spring

gives way to furious flapping

up and over the skunk cabbage

past the peeling bark

and the branches swollen

with impending life

Paul Revere returns in insect form

to ride the wind once again

to sound out the warning

"The yellow jackets are coming"

"The yellow jackets are coming"

Long live the underdogs

I would like to be a dandelion

with a wild yellow mane

adaptable and sturdy

a scrappy Jesus flower

judged and despised

by people with power

(those fancy pharisees)

but beloved by appreciators

of the underdog

it is no respecter of yard

rich poor gay straight

brown black or white

probably a few tax collectors

and prostitutes in there too

and even though many

try to murder it

again and again it returns

it's very life carried

by the wishes of wind

which moves as the spirit

we are told

until victorious it rises

stout face to the sun

Morning on the Metro North

Burnt tongue on a cold day

they forgot the cream in the tea

but it's too late to go back now

the conductor clicks my ticket twice

then stumbles backwards

legs not quite seaworthy yet

I wonder if this is his first day

I wonder if he can tell it is mine

I wonder if anyone will

take the empty seat

next to the girl writing poetry

in a small magenta notebook

staring out the window

past the appirition of herself

to the golden arches

that shine through

the barren treeline ahead

it is hard to tell

if it is late fall

or early spring

the wet bark offers no clue

there is a donut shop

spelled "Doughnut Shop"

which seems strange

even though it is correct

it is much too formal

for the early morning

and the exposed back yards

that we speed past

are much too informal

an evite to voyeurism

with their over turned

plastic play sets

and leaf filled above ground

swimming pools

I don't see a single person outside

as if the Metro North could outrun

the Apocalypse

and just as I begin to fear

that I may be the only person

left behind

a man with a green overcoat

green umbrella

and carefully shined shoes

sits serenely beside me

he says he doesn't mind

I can keep my purse where it is

then folds his hands neatly

over the wool hat in his lap

for some reason I thought

that he would be cloaked in white

Sinus pain

Yellow plaid rainboots
automatic umbrella
Marc Jacobs trench coat
and a new roof
guaranteed for thirty years
all carefully designed
to keep nature out
but with one blustery front
her fingers reach under
my waterproof fedora
and into my head
to remind me I am hers

To be other

When I learned to shave at eleven

I cut myself right up the shin bone

because I was in such a hurry

to be older

When I said "I do" sophomore year

I cut my tender young heart deeply

because I was in such a hurry

to be faithful

When I made fresh latkes years later

I cut the tip of my thumb clean off

because I was in such a hurry

to be worthy

When I shaved my shin smooth this morning

there was no injury, cut or gash

because I was not in a hurry

to be other

Rebellion is natural

The silver maples have graduated

from the tender pink buds of childhood

to the wild red spikes of their teenage years

selfishly soaking up the sun for themselves

giving none back to the tree that bore them

(they lack the chlorophyll and the compassion)

they only care that the wind

is playing their favorite tune

turning them into a bobbing mosh pit

of arboreal punk rockers

and all they want to do is dance

Cloak of Holy

While gathering sticks

felled by the storm

you come across

a large patch of plush moss

carpeting the base

of a blossoming silver maple

and for a reason

that can not be named

you kneel down

and rest your hand upon it

feeling the life

spring up beneath your fingers

with such vitality

that it vibrates

through your whole being

until the green of it

reaches your heart

filling it with the verdant

love of creation

and now you know why

Buddhist monks in Japan

would clothe themselves

with pelts of moss

when they traveled

between their sacred sites

a cloak of Holy

for the journey

The Robin

May I learn from the robin

who races into the rain

instead of hiding from it

for her it is not a nuisance

it is nourishment

and when her wings are wet

she does not fuss or preen

but delights in hopping

upon the sodden earth

searching for the worms

knowing the slime and dirt

will only make her stronger

understanding that when

she deigns to stoop

she will be fed

Aware

It is just a glimpse, really

a flutter of gold

a faery wing

or wind blown leaf

they are the same

time slows

the world glows

heartbeat of the pond

pulsates in ripples

the moment is fleeting

as they all are

but even so

the breeze has shorn

the dust off the pane

and for a breath

you were aware