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.
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.