The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune.
William Wordsworth
In the after-rain perfect morning
one puddle in the driveway
is clear as glass over the stones
where the dog’s foot sinks deep,
toes splayed, and when he drinks
the surface ripples hard
catching the brilliance of summer sun
though we are standing in shadow
on ground dappled with gold
so pure that a tumble of brambles among the trees
turns to spirit, every line shining
emitting white light, like God, like life
in a universe of green, quickening
sycamores and tulip trees in full leaf
reaching, resting – gestating the seed
Cicadas unnumbered
Their voices are calling
Like shamans’ , their rattles
invite me to dream
but Jays shout alarum
Invader! Invader!
The wings flash in warning
to drive me away
I smile at their anger
and walk to my breakfast
my windows thrown open
my morning of peace
Acknowledge – acknowledge
the war and the dying
Acknowledge the struggle
lest you are destroyed
This green hill is not gentle
Even birds have their battles:
siblings fight at my feeders
where a hawk hunts the jays
Insidious honeysuckle,
And wily wineberry
convince us with sweetness
to let them run free
Barberry storms and swarms us
thorns wicked, roots like anchors
It strips the soil to acid
and starves the native seeds
and in that weakened bedding
the stealthy stink tree clusters
advance without remorse, then
declare they’re heaven-sent
Biology exhorts us
to hate a foreign species,
eradicate invasives:
restore a balance lost
while humans filled with hatred
insist that homo sapiens
comprise more than one species
and twist truth till it bleeds
The house wren slaughters larvae
A car mows down protesters
I’m told, to say “lives matter”
is partisan and wrong
And what to tell the children?
The legacy we leave them
is bigotry and bullies
and flowers on a grave
My morning is the same one:
perfection wound with poison,
compassion for the killer
the hardest crop to reap
The world stares in my window
expectant and demanding
This world is too much with me
We teeter on a cliff
Today I asked for dreaming
and, eager, reached for visions
I cannot now be silent
This nightmare is the gift
There’s war on this green hillside
like war in this, our country
like smoke in a dark bedroom
that kills you while you sleep