Oriole

A morning cool and blue

and the oriole orange

and black-winged

sings unseen beside the stream.

The child in the hand-me-down spring coat

holds fast the precious coin in her pocket

and decides:

there is a small book

on the shelf

behind the cash register

at the five-and-dime

a glossy book of birds.

She will learn their names

answer their calls

there is no plan yet

no other road than the one

she walks every day to school.

She doesn’t know that morning

that songbirds migrate

that every spring a new nest

must be built

days have not yet become weeks

nor months become years.

She sees its orange and black feathers

moving among the roadside branches

so real are the colors

she can’t wait to tell someone.

Recycle the Moon
(Full moon, December 19, 2021)

Wrap your arms around her belly 
and (on the Solstice, December 21)
when she rolls through 
your bedroom window 
and lingers, hovering over your dreams,
cushion your head on her soft pillow chest,
watch her wistfully as her smooth, 
round back glides horizon-bound.
You wish you could go with her, 
but she has work to do:
Each night she sheds a layer (December 22)
Delivers a package (December 24)
Gives away a slice of light (December 26)
Sweeps the star-spangled sky (Dec. 28)
Dances till dawn (December 31)
until, unburdened of her own bounty 
she goes home, closes the door 
(New Moon, January 2)
and—well this is her secret—
Is she sleeping, baking lemon pie, 
composing a symphony, writing a poem?
You are curious to know: 
Does the moon, like you, want to be new?
Inside her sky-bowl she ponders and stirs, 
adds lunar alchemy until she’s ready, 
then opens the door just enough (January 4) 
so a sliver of silver slides through,
coy as the petal of an evening primrose.
And you hear the young moon’s 
saucy talk and flirty laughing
and you watch her belly growing 
big and bawdy and round (January 12)
and you wrap your arms around her 
and she’s the same old moon 
you knew before,
recycling her light, 
renewing her promise to return.
(Full moon January 17, 2022)

The small plums

on arching limbs

clutch the branch

from which they grow

plump and purple.

Far too many, I admonish the tree,

you astonish with your superfluity.

But then, what do I know?

I only hover nearby,

circling the throne of your high summer glory.

Too crowded with the weight of survival,

some plums let go their hold

still green.

Some grow fatter every day,

more purple, sweet and round.

The greedy gardener,

thinking they are hers,

worries they will rot

for want of human hands

to pluck them from their bough

until, standing at the early morning window

she finally sees:

three birds pecking at plums

as a squirrel whisks along laden limbs.

Fruit falls and

dewy skin breaks open

for any fly or sparrow,

worm or beetle,

mouse or perhaps

for no one

but the fat-bellied glory of August.