Maple & Moon


Why should I describe

my feelings for the backyard maple

and the moon I spy

through branches like a lace curtain

as it rests upon mighty Mount Tom

that from here I must conjure

from memory and imagination

as the neighbor’s house blocks my view

I mean the maple is not really so old

as trees go

kind of middle-aged I think

or maybe assume stemming from my desire 

for companionship

I don’t really know

having only lived here 13 years

which is the longest I’ve lived anywhere

but not so long if counting

against the life of a solid maple

and the moon is the moon 

to which poets greater than myself

have written many a rapt epistolary 

so there hardly seems any value

in my tepid musings on moonlight

and what it reveals


High Risk



outside the 7-11

is minding a stroller

mask bunched below her chin

cigarette dangling from pursed lips



Sunday morning 
blows curtains
across cat-hair window bed
cars still streaming by
but weekends are a reprieve

From dump trucks
and heavy equipment
so far no one has revved up
yard machines and I’m grateful
for the relative peace

Third cup of coffee
laundry waits
everyone still asleep
including my kitty twitchy
dreaming in her bed of sun