Spring

 

Birds chirp in the trees overhead,
Congregating on one, then the next.
Trading stories of hunger and fear,
Envy and rage, love and joy.
I lay in the waving grass below
And lose myself in their chattering music.

White magnolias and cherry trees,
Like bright clouds on the ground,
Lift my eyes up through their branches
Into the gray-blue skies above.
Petals float past me weightless,
Magically freed by the slightest breeze.

How little I give you!

A pot on a plate on our table

To sit in with your soil.

A minute of time every week

To pour you water to drink,

And a few minutes more

To admire and think.

Blinds left up to let indirect light

Stream through the window from dawn until night.

And suddenly, a bud! A bloom!

However little you consume,

By some alchemy you transmute

Golden sun
Into golden petals

To crown your leafy head.

What rewards you offer

For what little you are fed!

Aged 99

Age is just a number, they said.

99 years of life, just a number.

99 years till a timely death,

For some definition of timely.

I took a walk some years ago

Through hills and woods and snow

And found a cabin sitting still

On a path long untraveled

1 door, 4 doorways,

1 table, 3 plates,

1 bedroom, 2 beds,

1 fireplace, just numbers.

A 50-50 chance I make it

To another year, another number.

A 4-month median survival.

But I’m not a number, they said.

 I took a walk some years ago

Through the trees into a meadow,

And I found a piece of glass

Shining in the grass, in the sun.

6 sides, an irregular hexagon,

Its past forgotten, its future unknown

To me, but even to itself.

Perhaps especially to itself.

6 more months to another number,

Those months to be forever unknown.

Because time is up, and my clockwork heart

Rang out its final tone.