Two Poems
Spring 2020



It’s warm for early March and drizzling.
Inside the coffee shop the barista
Presides, pulls the shots and clatters cups
across the counter.
Customers find their corners, stare at their phones.

Sisters share the brocade sofa,
And recite their news to one another
In the shelter of a tall potted plant.
“She doesn’t.”
“It’s only.”
“Who knows?”

Spring is far away.





My house, my house, my aging house.
Popping, peeling paint,
windows rotting lightly through the years.
It stands. It shelters,
Leans a little less than square.

Weeds grow tall, forsythia wild
Around the basketball hoop
Straight and sturdy in the yard.
Where are the boys who dribbled,
Turned, and shot from the court below,
Bouncing their angry edges hard
against the fiberglass backboard?

My house, my house, my aging house.
Herbs tumble over the dirt
New shoots green on last year’s woody stems.
Ancient chives and tarragon sweet.
Sage for blessing, thyme for spice.

My hand brushes the lavender,
Whose ancient fragrance
Guards my woolens from moths,
My senses from sleeplessness.