Cut Down in Spring

Riddles were not shaped to die young—

a hurricane that rips through an apple orchard in May

shreds trunks, shrivels roots, splits hearts,

scattering limbs that leaves

blood spilled on grass and shoulder and tarmac.

People were created to kiss, to dance, to laugh,

to grow old like the live oaks in Georgia

that weather the storms and branch out to each other

supporting, holding an arm, twisting together

never to be undone.

Malachi Martin met his Maker on August 19. To Lucy, my dear sister, and Daniel, we grieve with you. May the Father continue to carry you.

Isaiah 30:15

You just are like the pink gladiolas that grow

along the front of my trailer

stunningly simple, yet complex,


like the oak and gum and maple that branch their arms

from one to the next

foresting my view of each sunrise

silent, stately, there.

You just are fullness we miss in our ragged rush to proceed

to the next project, efficient, while the moon rises and sets

rises and sets.

Last night’s moonscape dazzled Monet’s Garden,

it hung white and round against navy velvet—

warm when I touched it, gauzy strands of silver

spanned the scape like bands to hold the scene to the board.

There it was

silent, silver, startling

unveiled for the first look when I stepped out of the garage.