I wake today
with the seed
of a fertile memory
and hope
the morning’s
translucent sun
will dance
its laughter
upon my tears
swirling
like a whirligig
and lift it
as leaves
in an October
breeze
upward to kiss
the branch that
wisely let go
yet the haunting
dreams that colored
my damp pillow
and clung the bits
of mixed emotions
into my tousled hair
can’t be brushed
away
Summer offers
her warming light
so playful children
can butter their chins.
Finally going to seed
it takes only a puff of air
to tear them limb from limb
and send them flying.
Each little fluff
flies to a tender place
that welcomes it
and lets it grow.
And dandelions, too,
want nothing more
than the wind to lift them
and carry them home.
Shadows greyed
the peonies
as they hung their
heavy heads
after a day
of showing off
their crimson petticoats
with the passerby’s glances
forgetting to inhale
their shot of intoxication
that was free for the picking.
Now night must do her magic
giving them renewed courage
to raise their heads
in dignity
tomorrow
and tomorrow
before the summer ends
with chastising heat
and dries them all
to seed.
Colbalt tears seemed to seep
from the crows of my eyes
like water running
on the parched earthen furrows
that were too hardened
to allow the healing moisture in
and days had to pass
before a seed of hope
could rise to greet the sun.
The tree lost
a seed falling
landing upon the dew soft grass.
The earth allowed a space
to snuggle
till thin roots dug darkly deep.
I had to wet-knee crawl
as if my tears
knew the source of my pain.
Every dent in the moss
allowed me
to wallow.
Till the mushroom
shouted
hope.
I am a prisoner
of Farmville,
trapped in walls
of colored bales
so coins and levels
can speed the deed
of harvesting plants,
and trees,
and God help me,
a hundred chickens.
You know my torture,
know my level,
my quest
for the next upgrade.
‘Till log in issues
temporarily stop
harvesting gifts
off my Live Feed.
So Tech Gods
solve the bug
sending farmers swarming
to their diamond dirt,
as the Devil seeds
a greedy need
for a hundred neighbors.
No more.
I have sold my farm,
chicken by chicken,
my voluntary commitment
for a Farmville detox.
I will be a prisoner
no more.
She sat in my classroom for one hundred and eighty days.
Front left side, third from the center aisle.
16 days absent, if truth be told.
Not much of a story here.
Flu, broken bones, all the usual ailments of a twelve year old.
If my students weren’t so easily distracted
from the topic of the lesson on that day,
I would have noticed her empty desk.
She entered the room quiet, so quiet, you may have not seen her
as she slipped by with her arms wrapped
around her books and she apologized
when she slid into her chair.
Crouched down with my face closer, I asked, “What was that?”
But there wasn’t another sound coming out
from under her shield of auburn bangs,
her exaggerated part falling against nature.
She moved her hair aside so one dark pupil could peek through.
I could see she had been crying
and in our glance we agreed
to leave the story there.
Students were asked to write about a happy memory.
The bell rang and her paper handed in
told the story of her older brother
ripping a clump of her hair.
In the jostling of books as she left, I could see it was non-fiction.
Her scalp showed a shining new bald spot
the size of a fifty-cent piece
but the story written there
went on to tell of how she felt safe in the walls of this room,
and since I was her teacher
could I write her an excuse
to stay away from home?
She sat in my classroom for one hundred and sixty-four days.
In 1960, Pete and Joe
wondered as they sang
when people would ever learn
where all the flowers had gone.
Gardens used to keep children
running under its sprinkler spray
and kicking the can and water balloons
filled cut grass with fun.
Laughter road the streets on bikes
with cards click-clicking spokes
and sticks banged out a tune
on the leaning picket fence.
Yet drive the street anytime today
and no one is outside
for children left the garden,
unattended, gone to weeds.
A long time since 1960,
you and I still wonder
where flowers in our garden go
when children live inside.