Crabs and Pines
When we moved here, the crab
tree flowered like a sculpted ball
on a stick, and the contorted pine
seemed straight out of Horton-ville.
We have pruners; we don’t use
them much. Fourteen years,
and the crab pokes at the sun
porch roof, autumn star clematis
winds through her branches,
the contorted pine bends
his back, thrusts his arms into the crab
canopy, peering through the foliage
like a professor, searching for tree
frogs who begin chirping at dusk.
Faith in Flying
These unusual days, people driving or walking or talking are grating
my nerves: tiny brittle petals of me, littered. Pink. At home, I crochet
these bits into a shapeless sweater. But it’s not smooth. It’s seedy.
Nothing lays flat. I put on my wings, instead, hedged
by the cliffs around me. Flying is a trick
we can all learn. Take a deep breath, let go
enough so the tips of your toes dance on air.
Fly past me. Fly past you. We can all fly, Fran says,
when we don’t think about what we are doing. Do you
believe her? Does it matter? It’s the soaring that counts, the way
what we cling to flutters behind us creating kaleidoscope messages.