To weave a wattle,
Twigs I collect.
Piled on my plot
As high as my neck.
To weave a wattle,
I cut them to length.
I stake out my plot.
They yield with my strength.
I weave a wattle
‘Round my garden to go
To contain the flowers;
Peas I will grow.
I weave a wattle.
A fence it will make.
When the garden is ready,
The fruit I will take.
cloudy autumn evening sets
chilly wind blows east
A fortnight spent in electronic stacks
Knowledge suspended in infinitesimal space
Awaiting my comprehension
My eyes are strained
My back bent over the keyboard
My fingers reel in spurts of madness
At first the struggle weighs
Upon my conscience
The idea sparks to life
The weight shifts
The deadline nears
Alas the paper is due
I finish with a final stroke
Summer grasses as high as my head
Seeds cast wide and ready to spread
In the wind stalks bow as one
The honored summer deed is done
Cicadas sing their chorus bold
Perched upon the strands of gold
The dark dragonfly horde amasses
Just above the summer grasses
I pass among Nature’s drifting motes
Pen in hand I make my notes
The easterly wind turns the weather vanes
The sun presses down as summer wanes
With a whisper, the summer grasses part
A rusty doe from hiding darts
Eyes wide, she catches sight of me
To the high summer grasses again does flee
Publicly decries his stupidity
On a flat Earth he does reside
Perhaps he should move to the underside.
I say as I pass you
on the sidewalk
for an instant
your eyes flicker
across my face
as though I have said nothing
I get it
I’m not asking for a commitment
just a moment of personal civility
The fog ahead obscures my view
Of horizon’s distant reach.
Behind me casts a golden hue,
my past brighter than my future.
This road is straight, a narrow path,
Two lanes of an unforgiving surface.
Painted lines prohibit one to stray.
On either side, the wildness grows,
snaking across this path I tread.
I wish the wildness would take me
Back to where I came from,
A child free to play with fairies and trees.
One free to make soup of rose petals and leaves.
One free to let mud pies to bake in the sun
Of a future not yet experienced.