We walked miles to the lake, my
cousins and I, one hot summer
weekend. Past farm houses
and fields. The house still stands.
New houses fill spaces where corn
grew. Barns, gone.
Down the Road
Category: Poetry
Trimming Vines
It was cool when we woke up.
A day to trim the wild vines
of Russian Olive that
straggle over and across
the old bus stop path.
Cutting and cutting,
long clippers revealing bare
branches. Old hand
cramped and shaking.
Spider Silk #2
The spider silk rope hangs
down over the brick path, a
crumpled leaf twisting
on the end like a worm on
a fishing line.
Morning
A string of spider silk
hangs over the path.
A bit of dried leaf twists
and turns in the cool
morning air.
Jim’s Poem
Last night it cooled off. (So many
heat poems.) These summer
mornings, the cicadas singing
while I write. You still sleeping,
that comforter pulled up
to your ears. Dirty dishes
fill the sink. Waiting
for you to wake up.
Summer of 1966
That summer there was morning
sunlight as I walked to the bus stop
or chose instead the long walk
from home to campus. That
summer there were endless games of
chess, days we spent mimeographing
newsletters against the war. Being
with you mornings before work.
It all seemed to stretch out
forever, such a long,
long time ago.
Azaleas
Looks like rain again.
Green, gray, hazy.
Across the street, the neighbors
are moving, selling the house.
Since old Henry died, they
just let it go. A busted
chest laying in the bushes. Trash
spilled out and left. The azaleas are
still pink and
beautiful.
